Survival
by Nrrrd-Grrrl-Meg
Summary: "I was the kid destined for the Bloodbath, another blip on the radar, another life cut short. District Ten doesn't breed victors, we breed farmers and cattle ranchers, milkmaids and mothers." - Welcome to the 54th Annual Hunger Games
1. The 53rd Annual Hunger Games

**Survival – The 54th Annual Hunger Games**

"_It is said that your life flashes before your eyes just before you die. That is true, it's called: Life." _

_Terry Pratchett_

**Juni Bevilacqua – District Ten**

**Prologue Pt. 1 – The 53rd Games**

"You can't run forever, coward!"

The painful wheezing in my chest brings truth to his words, as does the strain in my thighs and calves. My legs threaten to turn to jelly at any moment and the bitter, blasting wind keeps me from running at full speed, even if I had the energy to do so. Sooner, rather than later, I'm going to have to turn and face him; the ax-wielding Volunteer from District Seven. A monster who's name I never had the pleasure of learning and now, he's going to lead me to my death.

How did it ever come to this? I was the kid destined for the Bloodbath, another blip on the radar, another life cut short. District Ten doesn't breed victors, we breed farmers and cattle ranchers, milkmaids and mothers. We slaughter cows and chickens, not other children. And yet, my hands aren't clean, my soul is now tainted and soiled. I didn't make it this far due to skill or athletic prowess, but by luck and cowardice. I am here, thanks to the deaths and sacrifices of twenty-two other children.

The deaths of my allies.

It was my idea to bring them together. Nausica from District Four was first, cast out of the Careers simply for being Reaped. To them, it didn't matter that she had trained her whole life for this moment, no, it was that single word that kept her from being the Career she was raised to be. Her own partner sold her up the river, refusing to vouch for her when the time came and ever rubbed it in her face when they replaced her with the same brute that is chasing me down now. Even now, I can't help by smile as I think of her seeking him out, trident in hand, laughing as she drove it through his back and pinned him to the cornucopia during the Bloodbath.

After I picked up Nausica, the rest fell into place. Maisie and Micah, siblings from the Grain District, came next, each with their own skills that meshed well with our own. They were the darlings of the Capitol, their tearful interviews brought down the house, as did their matching Training Scores. By the second day of training, we found a friend in Ravi, a thirteen year old from District Twelve that just wanted his death to mean something. At the last second, we picked up the final and most shocking piece of our gang, Lyja, the District Partner of the one trying to end my life now. She wanted to stick it to him for leaving her for the big guns and saw us as just the way to make that happen. We were the anti-careers, six tributes from five different walks of life, uniting together to show that even the Capitol can't keep us down. It surprised me that no one had ever thought to try this one before, but judging on how quickly things fell apart, I can see why.

As the gong sounded, it all went to hell in a hand-basket.

We lost Ravi to the bloodbath, pierced through the chest by a Career's spear and placing a sad and pathetic 24th overall. He was just a baby, the youngest of us all, and his life was snuffed out as if it meant nothing at all. The brother-sister combo from Nine came next; Maisie fell into a mine trap set by the techno-genius from Three just a day after the Bloodbath, her body exploding on impact. Micah walked off just a few hours later, refusing to take his weapon or say goodbye. His cannon sounded one day later and I can't help but believe he died at his own hands. Without his twin, he had nothing left in the world. Lyja's wound she gained by dueling with the girl from One soon turned infectious and I was forced to snuff her out myself, the sound of her begging has yet to leave my ears.

Of course, we weren't the only ones suffering from dwindling number. An even ten fell during the opening moments, including my own District Partner and the pair from Eleven, all allies under the age of fifteen. The sick bastard from Two met his end the same day as Micah and I can honestly say that I didn't feel the least bit guilty about smiling back at him. The last time I saw him, his saber was piercing through the chest of frail girl from Eleven and he his laughter echoed around me. The last of the proper Careers, the male from One, met his end just yesterday and I'm guessing it was thanks to the one chasing me now.

"It's only us left, coward. Fight me like a man."

He's right. It's now or never.

Seven stumbles back as I spin around, my hand tightly gripping the handle of my machete. His eyes flash with confusion; he never expected me to turn and fight him. To be honest, I didn't think I had it in me either, but then again, these Games have brought out a side of me I never thought existed. This is the boy that killed the closest thing I have ever had to a friend and was part of the group that made it their mission to slaughter as much as possible. I could still see Nausica, holding onto her insides as he stood above her, his ax dripping with her blood. The look on his face proved that he didn't feel the slightest bit of remorse.

No. He won't get the luxury of ending my life.

"That's right, I am a coward!" My voice cracks and forces itself out of my throat. "I wasn't supposed to make it this far, I wasn't supposed to live. But then again, neither were you. You think _they_ wanted us here? That we were their chosen ones? Look at us! We are kids, Seven. Just kids. And yet...here we are, so close to finishing this and instead, we make small talk."

"You're stalling, Ten," his voice wavers, just slightly and the ax twitches in his hand. "This is what they wanted all along. Careers, outer-district kids...it doesn't matter to them, never has. They just want a good show."

Now or never, Juni.

"I'm through giving them what they want. If you want this victory so bad, you can have it."

I barely register the guttural scream that escapes my lips, nor the scream that comes from his, as I drag the blade across my throat. The burning is like nothing I've ever felt and nothing I'd ever feel again. My legs finally give in and drop, the ground giving little comfort as the blood drains from my body. Tears and spots cloud my vision as I try to find something to focus on during my last moments. Anything to take away the pain that spreads through my body.

Jorja. Mama. Papa. I'm sorry, but I knew from the start that I wasn't going home. I'm a coward taking the coward's way out. If they make me a martyr, that's fine by me, but I'd rather my death mean absolutely nothing. Why should it shine brighter or have more meaning than Ravi's or Micah's or anyone of the other kids that feel before me? I'm nothing special, just another kid destined to die in The Hunger Games.

Nausica is waiting for me in the bright light. There is no longer a gaping hole in her stomach and everything is where it should be. She is no longer in any pain.

And neither am I.

* * *

><p><strong>Well now, kiddies...this is my first time at the SYOT rodeo, but I've submitted to a ton of them. Hopefully you guys like what you see and submit some tributes. The bio template is on my bio, so feel free to submit. I'm going to try to take the best of what I am given and if I do not take your tribute, I'm sorry ahead of time. <strong>**Once all the tributes are collected, I will update with the second half of the prologue and continue on from there. I am trying to have this story complete in 20 chapters, one every week. HOWEVER I do hold down a full-time job and have two kids that come first, so if I'm a little late, please don't complain. Life happens, guys. ;) **

**I would also like to dedicate this story ahead of time to the ever amazing Jabberjayheart for allowing me to swipe his story set up and inspiring me to even take a crack at something like this. Thanks, Sir Jabber of the Jays! And if you people reading this have no idea who this is, SHAME ON YOU! Leave my story and power-read through his TEN stories, then come back to me. His work is the best on here, I shit you not. **

**Good luck and enjoy this. **


	2. The Aftermath

**Survival – The 54th Annual Hunger Games **

"_The worst part of success is trying to find someone who is happy for you." _

_Bette Midler_

**Blight Saddler –** **Winner of the 53rd Hunger Games**

**Prologue Pt. 2 – The Aftermath**

_BOOM!_

Ten's cannon sounds as his body collapses on the ground, painting the clay beneath him a dark crimson. The copper eyes that once danced with a light now stare at me, bare and accusing, bringing with it the reality of another life lost. My body follows suit and I find myself on my knees, my ears filled with a sound I am not quite familiar with.

My own, anguished cries.

I crawl to his body, ignoring the rocks that embed themselves into my palms and it is still warm. His final words repeat in my head over and over, a vicious cycle, an endless loop and for a moment, I ponder following in his footsteps. Why give them a victor, a beacon of hope? It would be easier that way, to drag his machete across my throat and end my life in the same way he did. To take the coward's way out. This way, no one wins; not the districts that allow this to keep happening, nor the Capitol and their petty bets and gluttony. And especially, not Snow.

Alas, I am but a gutless little child, and I drop his weapon and rise. My name is announced as victor, but it barely registers. Nothing does; not the hovercraft coming down to collect Ten's body and not the one that comes for me. I am silent and reserved, different from the boy that volunteered to be here. Thankfully, no one says a word, leaving me alone inside my head.

It is days before anyone comes to see me. A mandatory one week stay in a Capitol hospital is thrust onto anyone that wins the games, regardless of injuries and mine is spent in solitude until day five when my mentor finally comes to see me. Her face is hardened, cruel. I was never her choice to come home, despite it being her job to see that it happened.

Lyja was Ivy's niece.

"Another Career victory for the Capitol." Her voice is frosty, at best. "There is nothing like giving them exactly what they wanted."

She mistakes my silence as a challenge.

"How could you let them murder her?" The frost melted just a bit, replaced with pain and remorse instead. "Her own ally...he killed her so she wouldn't hold them back."

The boy from Ten? So, his hands weren't as clean as I thought.

"You weren't even meant to be there." Her voice mimics the thoughts that have plagued my mind since I found myself raising my hand just a couple of weeks ago. "Braydon Sycamore should have gone in, his name was called. You had to fuck it all up."

This is true. It was my last year and with his name called, I was supposed to be safe. I had always planned on throwing myself a party if I made it through all seven years without being called, as morbid as that sounds. But in my family, it was never an option. I was not the first Saddler volunteer, but hopefully, with my win, I'll be the last one.

"For what it's worth," I begin, the words almost dying on my tongue. "I'm sorry about Lyja. I really am."

She scoffs, tears filling her hazel eyes. "Right. You're sorry. She's in a pine box, waiting to go back home to my brother and you're sorry. You're just sorry that you didn't get the credit for her kill."

With that, she is gone, leaving me alone with my thoughts once more. There is a hint of truth to her words, I am sorry that I didn't get credit for her kill. Lyja was obnoxious long before her name was called and a bully. She made my little half-brother's life a living hell in school and at the very least, I thought I could give him the satisfaction of knowing she would never hurt him again. I also didn't want to see Ten in the same boat I'm in now, dying with a murder on my soul.

Ivy would never understand why I did what I did; volunteering, joining the Careers. She has no idea the pressure placed on my shoulders, how my step-father would have kicked me out of the family had I not done this. Not satisfied with his own win twenty-some years ago, he has been forcing his will on the Saddler boy's lives to follow in his footsteps, as well as that of our paternal grandmother, District Seven's first victor. My older brothers, Cerese and Spruce, both fell into the same trap I did, only I returned home alive. Hell, I'm not even sure why Ivy is giving me such a hard time, Cerese was her district partner and she let him down. Why should I feel sorry for Lyja?

Because I'm not a monster. I was never like the other Careers, volunteering for glory and fame. I was broken long before I entered the games and volunteering was sort of my way out. Victory was never my goal in this, at least, not until I drove my ax into the chest of the bastard from Two and ended his reign of terror. He was my first murder, but certainly not my last.

Before long, I am sent back to my District where what remains of my family awaits. My house in our barely used Victor's Village is right next to my grandmother's, who is the first person to greet me. Her eyes that so match my own flash with pity and remorse and it's obvious that she blames herself for my predicament. My mother stays with me for the first few weeks, preparing my meals and leaving my side only to check on my half-siblings, Maple and Emerson as they stayed with their jackass father. Never once does she bring up the arena, never once does she question the large knife I sleep with under my pillow. Instead, I am treated like I'm five years old again and for a while, it's not that bad.

There is nothing like a mother's touch to bring the nightmares to an end, even for a little while.

My post-victory interview is pretty standard. Caesar grins away and I can't help but wonder if he has anything going on upstairs. I'm so distracted by his teeth-to-gum ratio and the canary yellow motif, that I miss most of his questions and come off as lumbering buffoon. Whatever. It's only when they being the recaps that I pay attention.

The recaps always focus on the final five, which starts by going over their placements by showing their Reapings. The silence on the screen behind me mixes well with the silence from the crowd, giving it all a surreal effect. The camera pans through thick smog, focusing a bit too long on the towering factories and similar-looking children, all lined in their pens like good drones. HELIX ELLISON, FIFTH PLACE appears on the screen, followed by the dark-haired techno-genius standing on stage, looking far removed from the confident trapster I had the luxury of not running into directly in the arena. It would have been a far different outcome for yours truly if I had. The scene changes, cutting to a sea of blue and fishing boats. My stomach flips as I see her name appear on screen, but I can't bring myself to look away. NAUSICA ODAIR, FOURTH PLACE. While Caspian Blue, like myself, chose to be in that arena, no one volunteered for beautiful sixteen year old girl. Her green eyes flash a defiant stare at those that allow her to walk to her death and for brief second, I catch the camera linger on a small boy, roughly three years old, crying on the sides of the pen. A sibling? I can only ponder as the screen changes once more, this time to the land of gems and gold. He is easy to catch in the crowd, proud and gorgeous. Multiple boys fall at his feet as he fights his way through the chaos and lands on stage, his luscious blonde hair and smile giving way to his name and placement. CARTIER VAN CLEEF, THIRD PLACE. All I can see is the fear in his eyes as vicious, sprightly colored birds peck his face, his screams echoing around me. His death was vile and painful.

The collective gasp of the crowd brings me back to reality as the last scene begins, the one I have dreaded the most. I have to admit, the scenery is breathtaking, the cows grazing in the fields, the large corn stalks, the mountains...it is better than I had ever pictured it. Soon, olive-tinted children lined in pens replaces the beauty and the camera focuses on him, almost as if they expected his name to be chosen. He tries to run, almost hitting the barricade that surrounded the pens, but a Peacekeeper catches him by the cuff of his shirt. He looks much smaller on stage, despite standing next to a girl half his size.

JUNI BEVILACQUA, SECOND PLACE.

Tears pepper my eyes, blurring the chariot rides and my embarrassment at being dressed as a tree, and my first interview, where Caesar tries in vain to learn my reason for volunteering. No such luck, buddy! I'll take it to my grave!

Soon, they focus on the Bloodbath, which is a bit lackluster if you are trying to portray my highlights. Despite reaching the cornucopia first and getting my hands on the ax that stayed by my side until the bitter end, I did little else. Charged with guarding the supplies, no one dared to test the outer-volunteer with the near-perfect score of 10. Nausica gets one of the first kills, pinning Caspian to the cornucopia not far from where I stood before making off with the remaining members of her alliance. Cassius from Two's laughter can not be heard by the audience, but I can hear it in my nightmares and I know it was escaping his mouth as he racked up the kill count, ending the lives of five children, all under the age of fifteen. Of course he wouldn't go for someone that would pose a challenge, like the towering boy from Five, his cowardice overwhelming.

His death is shown once the Bloodbath faded away and I regret nothing. Especially not after I found him with his hand shoved down the frail little girl from Three's pants as she was pinned against a tree, crying for her mother. I have to hand it to the Capitol, they cut out the part with the girl and left only the violence, my ax slicing him open and ending him. Other deaths follow suit, like the exploding girl from Nine, her twin fighting with Morphling addict from Six, only to end up with his neck snapped. Juni's tears as he drove his machete through the chest of my district partner. It all ends too quickly for my liking, because what comes next is the nightmare I live with every single day.

"If you want this victory so bad, you can have it."

"NO!" My voice strains and cracks as he drives the machete across his neck. A few members of the audience cry with me, most others gasp and turn away.

It is never the sick bastard from Two's face I see when I close my eyes. It isn't Nausica Odair's insides that cause me to leap from my bed, nearly slicing the face of mother as she attempts to calm me down.

It's his. Always his. His mop of red curls, the copper eyes. The smile he cut into his own neck that gave me the win.

Juni Bevilacqua.

Please...someone help me!

**Survival – The Fifty-Fourth Hunger Games**

**District One – Luxury**

Obsidian Lockett - 18

Versace LaGore - 18

**District Two – Masonry**

Ryder Rhodes – 18

Arianne Haskell – 18

**District Three – Technology**

Elias Auberon – 16

Tesla Farlane -17

**District Four – Fishing**

Orpheus Kallikrates – 18

Micky Holder – 18

**District Five – Power**

Lyle Ostero – 18

Verity Laraine – 17

**District Six – Transportation **

Dicky Howett – 13

Leila Siavash – 14

**District Seven – Lumber**

Tobias Mycroft – 18

Noely Eugenie – 17

**District Eight – Textiles**

Jarvis "Jalyssa" Sprence – 16

Hypatia Dawson – 15

**District Nine – Grain**

Chester Quaid – 15

Elvira Amaro – 14

**District Ten – Livestock**

Taurus Betail – 16

Irene Holleran – 18

**District Eleven – Argiculture **

Tarquin Derrein - 15

Isley Fontain – 15

**District Twelve – Coal**

Colliery Oread – 15

Illana Tivka -17

**Show of hands, kiddies...who saw the volunteer victor from Seven being Blight? Yes? No? **

**Anyways, sorry for the delay. I wasn't sure how to get this from my head to the computer and, well, yeah. I had to wait for all the tributes as well. The blog is also going to be launched with this chapter, so check it out. The link can be found on my bio or by going to...**

**survivalhungergames . Blogspot . Com **

**Of course, eliminate the spaces. **

**I'd love to get some feedback from those of you still around after waiting about a month (or, FOREVER in Fanfiction time) for the update. I'd like this feedback in form of answering questions. Or...question. **

_**Thoughts on the tributes of Survival, using the Blog as your basis?**_

**Sure, there isn't much to go on, but whatever. Have at it, people! **


	3. The Reapings

**Survival – The 54th Annual Hunger Games**

"_Fairy tales do not tell children that dragons exist. Children already know that dragons exist. Fairy tales tell children the dragon can be killed."_

_G.K. Chesterton_

**The Reapings**

**District One**

**Jewel Chisholm – Winner of the 31st Hunger Games**

_**Age of Victory: 15**_

_**Now: 38**_

"Miss Chisholm?"

Even after all these years, her voice gets to me. It's like chewing and swallowing glass, painful and grating. I'd much rather listen to Stone rehash his glory days or nails on a chalkboard at the old school house. Anything is better than this. Rubbing my temples gives me little relief, but at least it's something.

"Yes Cordette?"

Her squeal explodes through my head and it takes everything in me not to smash my glass of wine in her fat face. "We're on! It's time to see who comes to the Capitol with us!"

She waddles out of the Justice Building and the sound of her thighs rubbing together is almost as bad as her voice. It's the same thing every year, really, and I'm more than over it. Our tributes are chosen ahead of time, eliminating the need to rush and fight for the spot. Of course, the occasional fight still breaks out, but unlike our savage partners-in-crime over in District Two, we are more dignified and refined. Or, that's the lie we tell ourselves to get by. We are the beautiful ones, the ones from the best of everything and sponsorship gold. With our silver spoons and Training Centers, we are a victory sure. Seven victories in fifty-three years isn't that bad of a tally, especially since we are tied for first place with Two, but I want a real win, someone worthy.

Someone that can take over for me.

Last year was a disaster from the beginning. Despite the fact that Cartier and Lucinda were chosen months in advance, all hell broke loose when the name of the boy was called out. Boys that were jealous over not having their shot at glory tried in vain to keep Cartier from going to the Capitol and he was forced to break the arm of the mayor's grandson to get there. Lucinda got off light, but it made her seem weak and pitiful, which lead to her death long before the finale. At the end of the day, neither of them were worthy enough to take over for the likes of me.

The tributes I personally mentored to victory, Flash and Opal, are fine victors, never get me wrong, but they are but children. Neither of them lived up to the standard I tried to set with my win. I need someone I can hand the reigns over to, so I can get on with my life. Unlike the born and bred monsters of this district, I wasn't raised to sacrifice my future in a crazy attempt to be remembered. I was the poor, miner's daughter that made it to the stage before the trained girl did. My family has barely seen me in years and, maybe most shocking of all, I'd like to try my hands at having a family of my own. Crazy, I know, but a gal can dream.

The Luxurious Seven, as we are deemed, are lead to our spots on stage, surrounding our long-winded and long-standing mayor, and the crowd goes into an uproar. We are their teen idols, the faces on the posters that line their walls. They dream of matching our kill counts, the ones they fantasize about being with. Stone Zarvus, our third victor, gets the loudest screams and he basks in it like the vile, vain man-child that he is. Don't you people realize that you are feeding into an ego I have to deal with over the next few weeks?

Cordette steps up to the plate, so to speak, her hand so deep in the female tribute's bowl, that I feel it might never return. Of course, it does, and her voice goes through me once more.

"AZURI SPINEL!"

A mop of blonde curls makes its way into the center aisle from the sixteen year old's section, her face pale and listless. Why she even bothered to leave her pen is beyond me, it's not like we let the Reaped from One into the games, that's unheard of anymore. Where the hell is Stone's pick?

"I VOLUNTEER!"

Movement from the eighteen year old section catches my eye, as does the head of luscious dark hair. Much like myself, she doesn't seem to fit into the District One mold and for a moment, I regret letting Stone get his hands on the female tribute. It's always a bad idea to let Stone around the flirty young females, but this time it could be the difference between life and death. He needs to stop thinking with his little head and get the big one in the game, this girl is special.

Cordette hands her the microphone for just a moment, allowing her to address the crowd one last time. "I'm Versace LaGore and don't bother picking a male. I can do this one on my own."

Before she can steal the show any further, Cordette snatches back the microphone and heads for the other bowl, her smile still as bright as always.

"ALUC-"

There he is, my choice for victor. Unlike Stone's outcast, mine fits the mold of everything a District One victor should be. Blonde, chiseled, deadly. He reaches the stage rather quickly, but seems to shy away from the mic when Cordette gingerly releases her grip on it. Well, that much can be worked on in the Capitol.

"Obsidian Lockett, representing District One."

Groomed personally by myself and Opal, with just a hint of fatherly guilt tossed into the mix, he is an absolute shoe-in for victory. And, if by some chance, Stone is right, well...

It doesn't matter. District One will have its perfect victor. It's about time I was given the year off.

**District Two**

**Brutus Clay – Winner of the 49th Hunger Games**

_**Age of Victory: 18**_

_**Now: 23**_

"Last year was a disaster!" Her voice cuts through me, especially since she is stating the obvious. "You chose a child predator as your victor, Clay. A sick, depraved boy with an arena as his playground. Thankfully, that pathetic Volunteer from Seven was able to end his savagery before things got even worse for us."

All I can do is nod.

"President Snow almost shut us down over this," she continues, her face as crimson as her hair. "District Three was in an uproar over the little girl and the threat of dealing with a rebellion from those smarter than the rest of us is causing him unwanted stress. You have to fix this."

What Victory Bastille doesn't know is that I already have.

"Let's just get this over with."

Joining us on stage are the other five victors that have managed to beat the odds and comes home. Victory makes a complete change in attitude as Pius, our first victor, her father. It is sad how she turns from being a full-grown woman with a child or two of her own, to ten years old in the presence of him. Suddenly, the woman that mentored me through one of the most mentally-damaging arenas in recent years is nothing more than a pathetic little girl. It is equal parts hilarious and ridiculous.

"I chose the Haskell girl myself, daddy," her voice is so sing-songy that I want to bash her face in with a rock. "She's young, I know, but she's got what it takes to make up for _some_ of last year."

I don't even need to look at her to know she is glaring at me. Cassius will always be seen as much fault, as he trained under me. There was nothing in training that suggested he would snap in the arena, how was I to know he was so twisted? After all I did to bring business to Pius' Training School, both with my win and my presence around the district, I am now treated like the enemy. It isn't fair, but I understand it. One wrong move and our status as a Career district can be striped from us. We need a solid win to remind Snow as to why we are his favorite.

The Treaty of Treason ends and Pia takes her place on stage. She barely has a job, yet she takes is completely seriously.

"Your male tribute is..." She stalls, dragging it out as long as possible. "GAGE ARJEN!"

A familiar face makes his way quickly from the eighteen year old section, a grin spread across his face. He makes light work of the steps before snatching the microphone.

"Ryder Rhodes, at your service."

From the first time I met Ryder, just six years ago, I knew he was special. Now...it is his turn to show Panem.

"Well, aren't you the big boy," Pia beams as she makes her way over towards the female bowl. "And your female tribute is RAELYN-"

A stunning blonde steps out of the fifteen year old's section, ready to take the place of Reaped girl. What she doesn't see is the girl who looks similar to her barreling up behind her, shoving her to the group and taking her place. The whole thing happens so quickly, most don't have a chance to take it all in and I can't help but laugh.

Victory isn't getting the girl she wanted this year.

"My name is Arianna Haskell...and I guess my little sister will have to wait her turn."

The girl she shoved to get to the stage, who now seems to be her kid sister, tries to storm the stage, shouting obscenities and crying. Peacekeepers descend on her, dragging her away as Arianna laughs hysterically and Ryder just keeps grinning away. Victory looks like she wants to crawl in a whole and die, which is perfectly fine by me. This is exactly what she deserves and when this girl fails miserably, it will be her head on the chopping block instead of mine. At least my pick made it to the stage.

"This is _your_ work, isn't it?" Victory hisses, pointing to the girl as if she was infected with the plague.

With a grin that matched Ryder's when he took his place on stage, I shook my head. "No ma'am, but I almost wish it had been."

"This is an utter disaster!"

"Make the best of it, cupcake," I retort, not even attempting to hide my amusement. "You wanted a Haskell and you got one. At least this one is also trained."

Like the child she is, she storms into the Justice Building with her daddy in tow. Some things never change.

**District Three **

**Beetee Volta – Winner of the 38th Hunger Games**

_**Age of Victory: 16**_

_**Now: 32**_

Last year nearly broke District Three.

Her cries matched that of little Sylvie's when they met her ears, her body falling to the floor as that sick boy from Two pinned her against the tree. When her only daughter was Reaped, I knew I would have to pick up the pieces of Decimal's twisted psyche, but I never thought she'd meet her end the way she did. Inside, I cheered when the winner from Seven drove his ax into his body and let little Sylvie go, but it wasn't enough. The little girl I helped to raise was dead not long after, her little legs pumping through the thick forest and thin layer of pure-white snow when she stumbled at the cliff she never saw coming. We did, of course, but my parachute and warning came seconds too late.

It didn't shock me when her oldest son, just twenty years old, found their mother hanging in the closet. What did shock me was the outrage it caused in our normally docile district. What were the odds of a controversial victor's youngest child, with just one slip in the bowl, being Reaped? The probability of her name being chosen, or anyone child with only one slip in the bowl for that matter being picked, is so low that most can not put a proper percentage on it. Of course, I could, but that is besides the point. Decimal is dead, leaving just myself and Wiress as our only victors, holding together the tattered pieces of our district.

Wiress was damaged long before the arena. She was frail and beaten down, the sister of one of my oldest friends and the daughter of a violent drunk. When her name was called, he cheered, happy to be done with the tiny little punching bag. I begged Decimal to let me be her mentor, that I would try my damnedest to bring her back home. Deep down, I knew it was a long-shot, but I had to do my best to bring the feeble girl back home. After all, I owed it to her brother for being there for me when the spotlight of being victor wore off.

I did the unthinkable. I brought home the long-shot, the underdog, the one that was destined to die in the Bloodbath. But it wasn't an easy road after that. Decimal and I took turns spending the night with Wiress, to hold her when she broke down, to make sure she ate, to keep her father at bay. The Capitol wanted no parts of the girl that no one wanted to begin with. As a team, we brought her back from the brink and now, she sits beside me as my partner in all of this.

A heavy fog hangs over our heads, a side effect of the factories that help keep our district afloat. Those same factories surround us, giving our small town square and Justice Building an almost claustrophobic feeling to it. Adding to that feeling are the hundreds of children, roped into groups by age and gender, starting just feet from the stage I am currently standing on. Sitting next to me, her body jittering and skittish, is my partner in all of this, Wiress. The only tribute I have ever been able to save.

"I can't do this, Beetee," her voice frail and broken. "I just can't."

I reach my hand over, giving the arm a slight squeeze. "No, you can't...but _we_ can. Somehow, we'll get through this, for Decimal."

Winston Heuer, our escort for as far back as I can remember, stood at the female's bowl, his face void. I was surprised to see his return, after refusing to call the name of the female tribute last year. It took a Peacekeeper descending on him, electric prod to condemn little Sylvie. I had to subdue Decimal myself, to keep her from feeling the sting of the prod herself, while her daughter stood in the aisle, crying her little eyes out. It's something I wish to never go through.

"Your female tribute is...TESLA FARLANE!"

The girls in the seventeen year old pen dissipate around a fair-skinned blonde girl, who seems to be in a daze. After a moment, she starts to move towards the center aisle, the crowd in complete silence. The closer she gets, the clearer the smug look on her face becomes, as does the vacant look in her eyes. As her lips curl, her name becomes clearer in my mind.

Her older brother was found murdered in an alley just seven years ago. And now, she could follow his same fate.

Once on stage, her face starts to let up, as though the reality of her situation kicked in. However, she has not time to react, as Winston has moved onto the next name.

"ELIAS AUBERON, you are our male tribute this year!"

The factory manager's son? How is that even possible?

Clearly, I wasn't the only one stunned by these turn of events, as a voice can be heard over the stillness of the crowd.

"WHAT? This isn't fair...I'm only sixteen!"

Once in the center aisle, he sticks out his tongue at old Winston, obviously blaming him for his current predicament and drags his feet as he makes he way towards us. He's going to be a handful, I know it, but one that doesn't need our help as much as Tesla does. A good tribute to ease Wiress into her new job as mentor.

For Decimal, we will do our damnedest to bring one of these children home.

**District Four**

**Pike Sommers – Winner of the 30th Hunger Games **

_**Age of Victory: 18**_

_**Now: 42**_

Five victories. Just five.

For a Career district, we are deemed pathetic and weak, the first to die out of the Big Three.

Our first victor, an orphan boy named Wake, disappeared within weeks of winning, his body never turning up. The District never stopped looking for him, sadly, and he has long since become a ghost story amongst the other orphans in the Seabrook Home for Displaced Children. At least, that's what Mags Calhoun likes to tell us all. She knew the boy, Reaped along side his lover, he left some his riches to the other orphans he had grown up with.

"You could have let Thalassa take over for you," my voice causes her to raise her eyebrow. "Or Nixie."

I nod at the two women to her left; one, still the truly evil, vindictive woman she's been since the day she went into the arena, the other still as trampy as the day I bought her home. Both broken long before they volunteered, both made worse by their time in the Capitol. Nixie turns and faces me, her dress made with as little fabric as possible, her smile just a little too wide. It still pains me that I gave into her advances all those nights ago.

A mentor should never sleep with their tribute, even if it is years later.

"Thalassa is too competitive," she points out, nodding towards the darker haired woman. Then she nods towards the younger, fair-haired girl. "And remember what happened last time we let _her_ mentor?"

Who could forget? She turned hormone-filled boy into her personal slave before shoving him off into the arena. The poor kid barely made it past the bloodbath before meeting his end at the hands of the boy from Twelve. The Quarter Quell was not kind to District Four, even with four tributes in the mix. Troy Himara is one of the many faces that haunt my dreams every night.

Vera Dior, our escort since not long after my win, shuffled her way towards the girls bowl, her seafoam-colored hair flowing behind her. She has to be older than me, that much is certain, but she looks barely Thalassa's age thanks to the Captiol's love of surgeries. Without skipping a beat, she plucks a name from the bowl, the smile on her face giving away the fact that whomever she calls, they'll be safe thanks to a Volunteer.

"BEA HARBOR!"

The Peacekeepers kid? Was that even possible?

Movement in the eighteen year old's section gives sight to the girl chosen, her face soaked with tears. Blonde hair bobs from side to side as she cries, her head going back and forth as though looking for someone to take her place. At first, I don't believe anyone would, which, while rare, isn't completely unknown in this district, but then I see something red headed towards the girl, pulling her in for a quick hug before screaming, "I VOLUNTEER! TAKE ME INSTEAD!"

Red hair, an expensive dress...an over-abundance of confidence? She's a Holder, that much is true. I remember their youngest children in our training center, the last one being a girl. It would appear she was making good on her training and headed into the Games. A woman screams from the sides, begging her not to do it and it's obvious that it is the girl's mother, pleading to save her only daughter. All of this crying and overall softness isn't make us look any better in the eyes of the Capitol.

The girl barely has a chance to get onto the stage before Vera is shoving a microphone into her face. "Micky Holder...and I'm more than ready to prove myself in the arena."

Nice save, girl.

"Splendid!" Her voice goes through me like wind through sail out in the sea. She moves over towards the other bowl, repeating the process once more. "YARROW FJORD!"

Once again, there is movement from the eighteen year old's and it's a bigger shock than Micky Holder. Wavy brown hair, shit-eating grin. Girls gasping, both from his age group and some from outside the Reaping pens; it can only be one boy. With a slight jog, he makes his way to the stage and bounds up, snatching the mic away from a drooling Vera.

"Orpheus Kallikrates," he swoons, setting the girls and especially Nixie, a blaze, "And never worry, ladies...I intend on returning."

Once his name is spoken, I remember his story. His parents are religious, his father a priest or something. While most in the district have little time for silly things like religion and faith, seeing it as something held over from before the Dark Days, his parents were into it full-hilt. Their son, the lusty little prat that he is, spends his time being with anyone and anything he finds beauty in. This has lead to wild stories of religious whippings and nightly rituals.

All the makings of a fun interview that could gain him sponsors.

"The richest girl in all of Four and the boy with the religious freaks for parents," I mutter, looking at Mags for guidance. "What are we going to do with these kids?"

She looks at me, her smile never faltering. "We do as we do every year, dear Pike. We get them ready to take on the world."

**District Five**

**Raquel "Rush" Lycon – Winner of the 42nd Hunger Games **

_**Age of Victory: 16**_

_**Now: 28**_

"Raquel!" His voice, just as stern as its ever been, went right through me. "Keep still, you're going to scare the tributes more than they already are."

Only Ion's voice can bring my constantly moving hands to a stand still. After all, he saved my life all those lifetimes ago; the very least I owe him is this. However, telling a girl nicknamed "Rush" for a reason, is an oxymoron and within minutes, my hands begin to twist and turn within themselves once again. And, because my hands aren't the other thing that feels the need to always be moving, my left leg starts to tap uncontrollably.

"Rush!"

My head snapped forward, noticing most of the children in the crowd mimicking my hand gestures, a few in the front doing so in jest. Even as an adult, I am mocked for my constant need for movement and stimulation. But hey, it beats living in my own head and it saved me. Maybe my issue isn't as much of an issue as I thought?

"RUSH!"

"Sorry."

Lucky for me, Felicity Furla, our new escort, took the attention away from me as she makes her way over to the female bowl. For the most part, the new girl seems calm and collected, despite her loud taste in clothing. You wouldn't even know it was her first year as escort unless you really paid attention to that sort of thing. I never did; I still don't remember the name of the one that went to the Capitol with me and passed way not long after the last games.

In a clear, loud voice, Felicity lets out the name of her first victim. "VERITY LARAINE!"

A sea parts in the seventeen year old section, giving way to a blonde haired girl looking like a bug staring at an electric bug zapper. Her body is rigged, her face blank and pale. The girl behind her nudges her slightly, but her body remains in its place, frozen on the spot. She doesn't move or show the slightest bit of emotion until the Head Peacekeeper pulls her out of the pen and drags her to the stage, plopping her down right in front of me. She turns and faces me, her eyes pleading with me to save her, to change her fate. Not very unlike my own Reaping, when I looked in Ion's eyes and begged him to bring me home.

For a moment, I'm sixteen again, alone in the gray-stoned castle, sword in hand. My red hair in shambles, my eyes as crimson as my hair and filled with tears. Once again, I'm begging Ion to take me home, begging to see my father and brother again. My victor was the last one District Five would see, hopefully until now.

I'm so focused on Verity and my own demons, that I didn't notice Felicity call the name of the male tribute. There is a scuffle in the last section, a fight seemingly between two boys. A volunteering gone wrong? An argument from earlier that spilled over into the Reaping? Whatever it is, I shall soon find out because an eighteen year old boy is finally plucked from the pen by the same Peacekeeper that grabbed Verity and forces the boy to the stage. Despite his fight, he seems poised and confident, walking to the stage with a sense of pride before taking the microphone from Felicity.

"Lyle Ostero, ready to go into the arena," he blurts out, his face never wavering.

The spot that he came from is still active, as a boy that looks too much like the one on stage is still causing a ruckus. He is screaming and thrashing about, causing as much trouble for our Peacekeeper squad as possible, but whatever he is trying to tell us is lost amongst the murmur of the crowd. A sibling trying to go into the arena for his brother? Poor Lyle, he must have had to fight him from taking his spot.

Ion turns to me, same as he has done every year for the past eleven years, and grabs my hand. "Which one, Rush?"

"The girl, sir," I answer, my eyes never leaving hers. "I can bring her home, I just know it."

For eleven years, I have answered the same way; telling him which tribute I am taking and stating that I can bring them home. Every year, I am let down, brokenhearted, and devastated. I've mentored a tribute of all makes and ages, from tiny daughters of factory workers to the mayor's own son and every year, I've made the same promise. This year, I can feel it. Be it my own tribute that now begins to tear as the Reaping comes to an end or the boy who fought off his own volunteer, I know it come true. District Five will have a fourth victor, I just know it.

Everything is pointing towards it.

**District Six **

**Rydon Bentley – Winner of the 47th Hunger Games**

_**Age of Victory: 16**_

_**Now: 23**_

We're seen as the freaks of the Districts, the outcasts. They see our morphling addicts and general oddball citizens and believe us all to be cut from that same mold, that we are all junkies and grifters. Our air is thick and polluted, our streets filthy and riddled with addicts and thieves, and our morale is low. Overall, we are quite the pathetic group of people to the untrained eye. If only they could see the other side of District Six, the side that I see. Even from my spot on stage, in front of all of these somber people, waiting out to see if their child or loved on makes it for another year, I see a community, a group of people that would be there to pick up those grieving the outcome of the Reaping. The Reaping is that one time of year when we put aside our general awkwardness and come together.

It was this community that came together for my parents when I was Reaped. They stayed with my mother, making sure she ate. The fellow factory workers offered reassuring words and little acts of kindness that helped him keep it together. The same treatment was offered and received by Indra Slovak's family, the girl that went into the arena with me. Her fate was that of a Bloodbath victim, meeting her head with a knife to the throat from a girl that I would later go one to kill in the finale. Both are scenes that stay with me.

District Six has been luckier that most districts, especially for a non-Career district. I was their fifth victor, myself and Axel being the only sober victors remaining. At the end of our line is the first of us, Steam, a notorious alcoholic and woman beater and after him is the pair of morphling addicts, perfect fits for the persona our District gives off. Axel came home, despite having no leadership from the likes of them and was able to save my life. It's a debt I can never repay.

"Do you know anybody in this year?" My voice cracks when asking, knowing he has a family.

His eyes flash signs of grief and sorrow. "My sister's youngest is still in there. Last year, but still."

Family members of victors get chosen all the time. It wouldn't be a complete shock if Lysandra's name is called today.

Peridot Evangeline, our withered old escort, wobbles his way towards the boys bowl, looking as though he might collapse at any moment. Why we have never been given a new one is beyond me. It seems like a lifetime goes by before a paper comes up with his decaying hand.

"DICKY HOWETT!"

His cackle is heard over the crowd and I catch sight of him right away. Hearing his name is like a blow to my chest, mainly because I never realized he was even in reaping age, let alone in his second year. A scream echos from the outside, one I know right away belongs to his sister. Children spread out around him, but this isn't enough for him and I watch in horror as he fulfills ever stereotype he can of a District Six tribute. He plows his way through the crowd, taking the long way on purpose and shoving anyone that gets in his way, his laughter never ceasing. By the time he gets to the stage, at least a dozen boys are on the floor, howling in pain.

The look on my face must have given my thoughts away because Axel has my hand in his within moments. "Know him?"

"Maebelle's little brother," I mutter, my eyes finally meeting hers.

For her, I will try my best to bring him home.

"LEILA SIAVASH!"

Once again, the seas part, this time it's in the fourteen year old section. In the center stands a lone girl, pale and wide-eyed, her body not moving. After a moment, her body reacts, slowly taking her towards the center aisle towards her fate. Not once does the shocked look move from her face and she only moves quicker when she turns and finds a slightly older girl trying to volunteer for her. With just a few steps onto the stage, her future is set in stone.

She is a tribute in the 54th Annual Hunger Games.

"These are your tributes, District Six!"

The destructive weirdo and the shy wallflower. It's always the same when it comes to Six. No one ever breaks the mold anymore.

And that's the way President Snow likes it.

**District Seven**

**Ivy Bloomquist – Winner of the 43rd Hunger Games **

_**Age of Victory: 17**_

_**Now: 28**_

He just sits there, staring off at the crowd as though he belongs to be there. As if he deserved his win.

None of us are without fault, without sins that plague our waking moments. I, myself, killed for my freedom, for the right to live. But I did not have a choice in the matter, my name was picked at random, the payment for needing extra food to feed my family. I drove my hatchet into the backs of three people, never blinking as their cannon's sounded. When Cerese died, I mourned for him. We might not have been allies and he might have volunteered, but he was all I had left of home and I cried for him. Something that his brother never did for my niece.

Maybe I'm a hypocrite for being angry with him. Maybe, just maybe, I'm being too harsh on Blight. After all, he's just a stupid kid. He had no intentions of joining the Careers, but one can hardly say no when they come calling. If you do, you paint a target on your back. I get that, really I do. But he didn't need to be there in the first place and neither did Lyja.

She only went in because I broke the rules.

And Blight is here because he played the game.

"Last year, I brought back a big, strong victor!" Lotus Lemur's effeminate voice drives itself into my ears like spikes. "Will you just look at him, District Seven!"

Much to my discomfort, the crowd goes insane. It's like we are a Career district now, cheering the bloodshed and fame. Once again, that's not fair. Despite our booming lumber business, we still have a large amount of children buckling under hunger pains. This past year has saved the lives of many of those children, same as my win did eleven years ago. But, no matter how hard I try to be happy for him, all I can see is Lyja's face as her life drained from it, her eyes closing one last time.

Lotus keeps the moral of the crowd going, even as he walks towards the girl's bowl and plucks the name of the girl he is sentencing to die. "NOELY EUGENIE, COME ON DOWN!"

As though he was the host of his own show, he swings his arms wildly and points to the center aisle, but no one emerges. Even as the girl part way in the seventeen year old's pen, the girl in question doesn't move.

"Um, Miss Eugenie, it's now or never!"

Finally, the girl snaps to and begins her walk towards the stage. To her credit, she doesn't cry or try to run. Even I, the first female District Seven victor in 38 years, cried as the Peacekeepers descended on me. Without looking at either one of us, she walks the four steps that lead to the stage and is snatched up by Lotus right away.

"Just look at you," he coos, playing with her orange-brown locks. "Your stylist will just LOVE you!"

He is so busy fawning over her, that he doesn't realize that he never picked a male tribute. It takes Blight's grandmother Espien, our first victor, slightly coughing to get his head back in the game.

"Oh, yes, oh yes, how could I forget about you boys?" I bet the boys were just fine with forgetting, unless Blight has any more siblings that want to join him up here. "TOBIAS MYCROFT! Toby, come on up here, boy."

Tobias isn't a _boy_ by any means, but an eighteen year old that makes his way towards the stage, his face stone cold. The face of a victor. To my surprise, no little Saddler's ran up to take his place and steal his glory. Something tells me that he would be the first tribute in the history of District Seven to turn down a volunteer. His blue eyes pierce through my own, making my heart flutter and my stomach turn in excitement.

Lotus must also feel the excitement, because he shoves the girl out of the way to get his hands on Tobias. "Toby, Toby, Toby! Oh, my boy, the sponsors are just going to _love_ you!"

As he continues to faun over the blushing lad, I grab the girl and help her up to her feet. The seriousness of her situation must have finally set in, as her face is slightly wet with tears.

"Don't worry, sweetheart," I manage to say, through gated teeth. "I will do everything in my power to make you shine over him. Do you got me?"

It takes a moment to get past the fear and anxiety of the moment, but finally she nods.

We might have back to back wins just yet!

**District Eight**

**Jute Thimble – Winner of the 36th Hunger Games **

_**Age of Victory: 16**_

_**Now: 34**_

He's getting worse.

Thirty-seven years have past since he won his games and he hasn't been right since. The District has just taken him as he is, especially since he was our only living victor, but in the past three or so years, his mind is turning into mush. I can count on one hand the amount of times I had to get the doctors because I found him trashing uncontrollably in bed, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. It kills me to see him this way.

Even now, he sits next to the me and stares into space.

He isn't always this bad, he has his lucid moments. I cling to those moments like a security blanket, refusing to let them go. He'll smile, hold conversations, remember my name. Last year, he had a lucid spell and was a big help in getting our tributes ready for the games, even if they didn't make it very far. At least they were lucky enough to have _two_ working, functioning mentors instead of one incredibly stressed one, stretched to his breaking point.

Since winning his games, Woof has had the mind of a child. Despite being the second and last victor from Eight until I came around, I never actually _saw_ his game. Never really saw a reason to. District Eight has the same terrible luck in the arena as Three, Eleven, and Twelve. At least Twelve has the distinction of winning both Quarter Quells, even if only one of them is still around. The only thing we have to be proud of is the _honor_ of having the first ever winner of the Hungers Games, even if she was a crazed looney that ended up killing herself. Woof won on his own and I pretty much did the same thing.

I won't let that happen to my tributes. Not as long as I'm breathing.

Winter Rampuri, short, round, and white as snow, stood under her oversized umbrella, grumbling to herself about the state of the children lined up in front of her. It has rained non-stop for almost a week now, which fit the mood of us all. Winter, of course, didn't see it that way.

"Children, children, please!" she squealed, throwing her hands up in protest. "Stay out of the mud, you are on camera!"

How one stands in a dirt-lined Town Square and _doesn't_ get muddy in a rain storm is beyond me, but she is determined to keep our possible tributes clean as possible before they are slaughtered.

"Whatever, let's just get this over with."

For a woman wanting to speed things up, she sure knows how to draw this out. Five times...FIVE TIMES...she picks up a slip, only to drop it back in before her hand leaves the bowl. By the fourth time, the children in the front have lost their patience and start throwing mud bombs at each other.

"Ick! Stop it, stop it you heathens!" She finally pulls her hand free and announces her name. "HYPATIA DAWSON, please mind the mud!"

Dark hair moves through the crowd of the fifteen year old pen, the girl not giving those around her the chance to spread out. Her face is solid and strong, very much unlike the other children that had been in her place over the past fifty-four years. Very different from myself, that's for sure. It will see her through these games, I'm sure of it.

Once on stage, Winter pulls her in close and offers to share her umbrella. "You are too gorgeous for all of this filth and rain."

Much to the girl's disdain, Winter pulls her over to the bowl as she picks the name of male counterpart.

"JARVIS SPRENCE!"

No.

He is easy to spot in the sixteen year old section, with his long-flowing red hair and stunned, pale face. Whispers become murmurs, snickers become full-on bouts of laughter, and the reason why becomes more apparent when he steps into the center aisle. The Sprence family was well-known for their mysterious ways, but Jarvis takes the cake. Decked out in a flower-print dress and matching headband, he braves the taunts and jeers that come with his..._lifestyle_ choice...and makes his way towards the stage with his head held high.

"Jalyssa! Jalyssa!"

The crowd stops dead as a blonde haired boy enters the aisle, attempting to get the attention of Jarvis, but he ignores him, and keeps on walking ahead. Taking the hint, the boy drops his head and disappears back into the crowd once again. Then, as though nothing at all happened, the crowd goes back to taunting and laughing at the boy that stands in front of me in a dress.

"Well...this is interesting."

I turn and find Woof, once staring into space, now alert and attentive.

"I want the girl, Jute," he informs me, his smile bright. "The Capitol is going to _love_ that boy."

That much is true. And if Woof is here with me, District Eight has a fighting chance.

**District Nine**

**Lulu Grainger – Winner of the 52nd Hunger Games**

_**Age of Victory: 15**_

_**Now: 17**_

Thanks to the town square being set firmly between the grain processing plants, your last sight before you are hauled into the Justice Center is one of smog and disgust. When my name was called just two years ago, I leapt up and down, trying in vain to see the fields I grew up in. I wanted to see my childhood one last time before I no longer had one.

I was just fifteen when I was forced to kill. No one expected little Lesley Lu Grainger to slit the throat of a Career as he slept. District Four's Career leader never saw me coming, his throat quickly became a mess of red and flesh. Never once did I show remorse or sorrow, knowing that people like him wouldn't feel at thing if the roles were reversed. He was my first kill, just eight days into the games. Before the avalanche that signaled the end of it all just thirteen days later, I would kill three more times. My weapon, the same one I used every day in the fields, would strike down a second Career, a frail girl from Eleven, and the older boy from Six. When the rocks came down, I hid in a make-shift cave made of slabs of stone and outlasted the remaining two tributes. It took them a day to find me in the rubble, but by then, the damage was done.

My left leg was left a mangled mess, my arm missing.

The Capitol rebuilt me, but for what, really? To spend my nights in the beds of Gamemakers and my mornings scrubbing off their stench? I am barely seventeen and already a pawn of the Capitol.

Now it's all set to begin again. Two more will fight and die for the chance to be a piece in the cog that keeps the Capitol moving. I should _feel_ something for them, but I won't lie to myself. I don't, I honestly don't. Why should I feel for them, when one one felt bad for me? Wheatley might have the title of winning mentor, but he didn't drive his scythe into the chest of Napel from Eleven, he didn't hide out in that cave and live off beetles until someone came to find him as he slowly bled to death. He barely sent me a thing in that arena, spending all of the sponsor money we gained from those pigs on Isaac, my District Partner and fellow finale member. And yet, he gets the credit for my win.

Fuck him.

My first year of mentoring was hard. Twins, Reaped together, we knew that one wouldn't want to live without the other. When Maisie was blown to bits by the mine trap, I was shocked that Micah lasted as long as he did.

This year will be easier.

"CHESTER QUAID!"

Him?

If there was ever a kid not made for the Games, or life in District Nine in general, it was Chester Quaid. My eyes catch his face as he stands, completely frozen on the spot, in the middle of a circle. A few kids begin to snicker and point, making his face turn several shades of red. This continues as he makes his way through to the center aisle, his feet falling him a few times but he manages to catch himself before hitting the unforgiving ground. The more he trips, the more they laugh. The more they laugh, the more uncoordinated he becomes. My heart actually goes out to the kid.

He won't make it past the Bloodbath. We all know it, but no one wants to say it.

"Oh, honey, we have to bulk you up in the Capitol if you are to stand a chance!"

Well, none of DISTRICT NINE is saying it.

I would have knocked our escort's ridiculous flower and grain inspired hat off of her stupid head, but I knew no good would comes of it. After tussling poor Chester's hair, Miss Valentina Othello sashayed her way to the girls bowl and made sure to read the name as loud as possible, as though Chester only took forever because he couldn't hear her.

"ELVIRA AMARO!"

A loud cry from the middle of the girls section sounds out, a cry that quickly gives way to a sob. The name doesn't ring a bell like Chester's did, which makes me wonder how much younger than me the girl is. Finally, the sea parts, as it always does, and reveals a small, dark blonde haired girl in a pretty, but worn, dress. Peacekeepers see her too and within moments, they descend on her. She shocks the likes of me and everyone watching, as she hauls back and kicks the Peacekeeper that reaches her first square between the legs, causing the robust man to topple over almost on top of another child. I burst into a fit of laughter, despite Valentina's protests against such bad manners.

After a few minutes, a taller, firmer Peacekeeper grabs her by the scruff of her dress and drags her to the stage, where he tosses the girl like she was nothing more than a sack of grain. To her credit, she still doesn't cry.

On one side of the District Nine coin, we have an artist that doesn't know the meaning of the phrase _fight for your life_ and a girl, so reminiscent of myself, fighting authority with everything she has. So typical, so Nine.

"This takes me back two years," Wheatley bellows, reminding me of his inflated presence. "Still want the boy?"

My eyes go between the two; the boy fighting between being strong and sulking, and the rebel girl that is finally breaking down.

"I want him," I answer after a few moments. "She's too much like me, she'll listen to you."

Despite all my efforts, despite how much I put my soul into it, they won't see the fields again. But maybe, just maybe, its for the best. The most rebellious of us are usually the ones the Capitol men crave most. And the soft, creative ones lose their marbles within a year.

When will this get easier for me?

**District Ten**

**Nidia Ortiz – Winner of the 34th Games**

_**Age of Victory: 17**_

_**Now: 37**_

We were so close last year.

Juni had the drive and the smarts to make it far in the games, even if he lacked the killer instinct. His idea of the "outer Careers" was a brilliant one, a move I have yet to see in the games. The Capitol wanted an epic showdown between the two clans, but it didn't happen. At least, not in the way they wanted it.

Both sides had early casualties. The girl from Four made quick work of her district partner, pinning him to the Cornucopia with her trident as though he was nothing more than driftwood, while Ravi was the first tribute overall to go. I remember the look of utter regret and sadness in his mentor's eyes as the small, but incredibly brave boy dropped to the ground, barely six feet from his pedestal. Juni mourned the boy deeply; the youngest tribute last year.

Everything in me believed he was coming home. Ursula, his partner, was a Bloodbather from the word _go. _But Juni...he was going places.

This past year has been rough. Eduardo took Juni's suicide personally, despite being Ursula's mentor. Myself...I discovered that drinking helps. Closing down bars with the local cattle ranchers, drinking them under the table and getting black-out drunk, that gets me through the day. It keeps Juni's face from haunting my dreams with his bloody mess of a throat and haunting final words.

He's cremated now, part of him now resides in the rose garden behind my house.

Titania Lorde, our escort of five years now, placed her hand on my thigh, just a little to close for comfort. She takes our drunken thrust in the Capitol bar after Juni's death as something more than it was for me. Especially as my girlfriend of twenty-one years is just a few feet away from us, standing in her usual spot in front of the crowd. She cannot know about what happened last year, it would kill her. She gave up everything but her title of mayor to be with the likes of me and I won't let some drunken one-night stand come between us.

Thankfully, the propo is quickly brought to an end and Titania has her little job to do. Despite being just another caricature of Capitol life, Titania is one hell of a good looking woman, even when picking the names of children that are going to be either dead or bonkers in less than a month.

"IRENE HOLLERAN, please join us!"

The name meant nothing to me, but seemed to belong to a beautiful girl in the eighteen year old section. Her face is a mixture of emotions as she attempts to calmly walk towards the stage. My heart breaks for the girl, so close to freedom, as she fakes wiping her brow in an attempt to eliminate the tears from her eyes. If she thinks she's fooling anyone, she has another thing coming. Once on stage, she seems to fold into herself and focuses her energy on the stuffed dog that rests in her hands.

Titania doesn't miss a beat, pinching the poor girl's cheek before picking the next name,

"TAURUS BETAIL, join the stunning Miss Holleran up here please."

The boy is a completely different cup of tea all together. While his eyes betray him, flashing with all the telltale signs of fear and betrayal, he keeps an upbeat outer shell. He skipped to the stage, his smile illuminating his face, and even made quick work of the steps. Taurus is a big boy, standing a head over Titania and at least an inch or two on his older partner, and has a light about him that will be easy to sell in the Capitol.

Just like Juni...

The boy seems like a delight. Funny and flirty, an easier sell than the girl that refuses to look up and loses herself to the weight of it all. Different as night and day, that much is certain.

Taurus tries to flirt with the girl, failing horribly as the girl fidgeted and twisted, her eyes never meeting his. This made him turn his attention towards Titania, who took it all in stride. It was like death wasn't waiting for us just around the corner, like we were just a few actors putting on a show. Maybe we are just actors putting on a show. That's what these games are, really. A show for the Capitol, with those that perish playing bit part to the lead players/victors. It's sick and unnerving, but what can the likes of me do about it? Absolutely nothing.

"Have fun in the Capitol, my love," she coos at me, giving me a quick kiss on the cheek before finishing with the Treaty of Treason.

Mayor Indie Moon can never find out what happened last year. Without her, I am just a drunk with constant night terrors. A failure at life and a murderer.

She keeps Juni's face away better than any amount of alcohol ever could.

**District Eleven**

**Seeder Grove – Winner of the 29th Hunger Games**

_**Age of Victory: 17**_

_**Now: 42**_

There is a weight to the air that I just can't place my finger on. While there is an almost staleness to the air every Reaping day, this year there is something else about it. Something isn't right, I can feel it down to my bones.

It's a feeling I haven't had since I was Reaped.

I don't have family in the bowl this year. And after seeing what Decimal from Three went through last year, I'm unsure of whether or not I want to ever try for a family, even this late in life. Victor's children are slowly becoming a favorite among the Capitol, thanks to Victory Bastille following in her father's footsteps. Now they expect all of them to do the same, despite their ages. And if they can not get you through your children, the next step is siblings if you are still young. Our first victor, Mordicai, lost a niece a little over a decade ago, so it's a feeling not lost on me. For once, I am happy to have grown up an only child.

The fields that surround the Town Square are finally starting to recover, the visual reminder of last year's tragic post-reaping event is slowly going back to normal. Next to me, Chaff Praust's body stays rigid, his eyes focused on the remains of the fire that swept through just last year. My hand finds his arm, but he pulls away. This isn't like Chaff, not in the slightest, but since this is the one year anniversary of what we have dubbed, _The Reaping Fires, _I understand fully. Unlike our similar upbringings and victories, this is one area where we have nothing in common.

"This year, I'm going to change it up just a little bit," Allante Forbes' voice is so high that it makes the microphone crack and pop. Several children near the front cringe and grab their ears in pain, but it does little to stop what is happening. "Ladies first!"

Allante, who resembles a stalk of asparagus in her green, curve-hugging dress and matching hat, took little time in stretching her long legs over to the left bowl and damned another child. "ISLEY FONTAIN!"

There is a collective gasp in the crowd, as her name is a well-known one in this district. Every peacekeeper has tried to wrangler her in, but there was just something about her that always had them letting her go. Rumors have spread about the reasons behind it, but I think it has everything to do with her outgoing, if abrasive personality.

Isley is easy to find, with her pale skin and mop of unruly dark curls that almost match those of Mordicai in his younger years. Already on the outside of the sixteen year old's pen, she quickly makes her way towards the stage, but stops just inches from the steps. The Peacekeepers that man the pens tense up, getting themselves ready to go for her when and if she tries to bolt, but she shocks us instead. She reaches down and picks up a handful of dirt and shoves it into her pocket. It's a strange move, I'll give her that, but maybe it will stand out to sponsors. Any little bit helps.

Before Isley even mounts the stage, the next name is chosen.

"TARQUIN DERREIN!"

Never once have I questioned the Reaping process. I have always seen it as the luck of the draw, no matter which one of us goes in. But now, I know that these bowls can be rigged. With all of the hundreds of thousands of names to chose from, his was one of the last ones that should have been chosen. After all, his family is among the top land owners in the district...or, they once were.

His family own the land we are currently surrounded by.

If there is anything to say about the boy, it's that he is holding himself together despite his situation. Hard stares, taunts, and general hoots and celebration of his bad luck come his way, yet he keeps himself composed. Even now, I make out his parents off to the side, their faces masks of embarrassment and, dare I say it, a hint of a guilty smile. None of this is right. The fire...it wasn't his fault.

Of course, I can't tell that to Chaff. His sister was one of the forty-two people that lost their lives that day. She was only fifteen years old.

"MURDERER! I hope you are speared by a Career, you bastard!"

Peacekeepers descend on us and I am thrust aside, hitting the wooden stage hard. As I fight to gain my barrings, I see a blur of white come at us, their cattle prods drawn. It takes three to hold back Chaff, one with his prod across his neck to keep him from going forward, another stands guard on Tarquin, who looks as though he might start to cry at any moment. Whatever bravado this kid had, it's now gone, thanks to one of those in charge of keeping him alive as long as possible.

Meanwhile, no one is paying attention to Isley and she takes advantage of it. In a few quick steps, she is off the stage and running, the lone remaining Peacekeeper quick on her tail. As he gets close to her, she pulls out some of the dirt she stuffed into her pocket and she blows it into his face, which leads to her getting gripped up.

All I can do is shake my head as my district turns into nothing more than a circus.

**District Twelve **

**Haymitch Abernathy – Winner of the 50th Hunger Games **

_**Age of Victory: 16**_

_**Now: 20**_

Dano. Marlene. Erjin. Langley. Ravi. Norra.

Six children, six different paths, but the outcome is the same. Always the same. Death before their 17th birthdays, sliced open and displayed for all to see or bludgeoned until their own parents wouldn't recognize them. Each time, my advice is the same, each time I believe they will make it back to me. Even little Ravi, my youngest tribute yet; the one who joins Maysilee Donner to haunt my dreams. I escorted both of their coffins home personally and paid for their services. It was the least I could do.

How did it all come to this? I'm alone in all of this, just me and the sweet burn of clear liquor; the burning reminding me that I am still alive. It wasn't enough for the Capitol and Snow to force me to sit by and watch as child after child fell, never to see life outside of this computer-generated hell, but he took away the only people I had left in the world.

My mother. My little brother, just seven years old. The girl I loved. All whipped to death in the town square, their crimes never announced, but we all knew it was because of me and my supposed act of treason in the arena. Because I played the game better than their Careers and exploited the arena's weakness. While I laid in a Capitol hospital bed, allowing them to repair my insides, they were suffering and bleeding to death for my crimes.

Sterling, my brother, was said to of only lasted ten lashes before passing out, never to awake again.

I hear their cries in the night. They haunt the halls of my lonely home in the Victor's Village, reminding me that I should be dead instead of them. What they don't know is that I wish I was dead, that I had died back in that arena. In some ways, I am dead...I am still in that arena, holding onto my inners like some slaughtered goat.

Male escort, as I've come to refer to him as, stands next to Mayor Cantlay, the two whispering, oblivious to the fact that I know they are speaking about me. After all, Norra was Cantlay's youngest, so her death is my fault. I'm also the one officials found sleeping in the graveyard again, hugging her tombstone, a bottle of liquor in hand. Why I bothered to do this thing sober is beyond me.

"Let's get this show on the road, shall we?" Male escort acts as though any of us have a say in what he does or does not do. His hand is in and out, quick as lightening and his voice reads off the name as though he was simply ordering an appetizer back in the Capitol. "ILLANA TIVKA!"

The name rings a bell, but its when I see the sea part around her that I realize why. She stands there, stunned, almost as though she hasn't a clue as to why anyone would be staring at her until suddenly, she does a total change around. Her arms and legs begin to thrash about, kicking and hitting anyone unlucky enough to be caught in her way, her mouth letting off a string of horrible words. If these were different times and I wasn't hung up on a dead girl, she would have been a girl after my own heart. A rebel, that much is certain, and something I could market to the big wigs in the Capitol...if it wasn't for the accident that left her with that scar that runs from the back of her neck to the side of her head.

Fuck.

Male escort doesn't even bother to wait for her to stop her tantrum, he just goes right to the boy's bowl and kills another child. "COLLIERY...OH...OHREAD? OREAD?"

Before he can butcher the poor kid's name anymore than he already is, an angry, bitter holler erupts from the fifteen year old section and the one responsible is quickly singled out. At first, he is stationary, his face revealing just how angry he is over his death sentence, only to finally drop the act as the Peacekeepers come for him. Without so much of a whimper, he is frog-marched to the stage and dropped next to Illana, who looks as though she might attack the boy as well.

They are so different; the girl a merchant child with a head injury that left her half the person she once was, the boy a Seam kid through and through, bitter and poor. I see myself in both of these two, they have a fight in them that makes me want to believe in them. That's what I need, older kids, ones with light in them, a reason to come back. Ones that haven't given up.

This is it. After this year, I won't be alone anymore.

After the Treaty of Treason, Male escort makes the pair shake hands and it's obvious that they are never going to be friends. No matter. All I need is for one of them to fight just a little harder than the other, for one of them to want it just a little more than the rest of them. Maybe, just maybe, they'll come home to their families. And if they are lucky, they'll still be here, waiting for them.

For a moment, I swear I see them again, standing in the middle aisle. They aren't covered in blood and begging for their lives. They aren't damning me for causing their deaths. Smiles, they are all smiling.

One day, I'll join them again. But not until I bring someone back, someone to take my place.

After this year, I'll be able to see them again.

* * *

><p><strong>Holy sweet lordie of pudding pops! This was harder than I thought! I officially know the pain of writing a Reaping chapter and I HATE IT! <strong>

**I'm just so happy to have this finished, that I'm just uploading it, so if there are errors, I'm sorry. I'm just so proud to be done and over with this stupid thing. And yes, some are longer than others and I'm sorry for that. I hope you guys like it as much as I hated writing it. ;) **

**Questions, questions, questions! **

_**Which mentors stood out to you? **_

_**Which tributes stood out? **_

_**Favorite Catching Fire tribute? (just because, lol!) **_

**Capitol chapters are next. Four chapters, twelve tributes each in random order. Two POVs each tribute, then the Bloodbath. Hopefully I'll have this story finished in twenty chapters. **


	4. The Chariot Ride

**Survival – The 54th Annual Hunger Games **

"_There are so many attention whores out there, prostituting for people's acknowledgment."_

_Jason Myers_

**Chariot Rides**

**Hypatia Dawson**

**Age 15, District Eight Female**

"Oh no, darling...what did you do to yourself?"

If it wasn't bad enough that they stripped me of my clothes and forced me into nothing more than a paper sheet, now I have three colorful Capitolites circling me. Their fingers poke and prod me, running the length of some of my longer, protruding scars, their eyes slowly judging me. The one with the enhanced chest and purple mohawk, aptly named Jetta, kept her eyes on my newest attempt, the jagged line just above my knee. The mark I am most proud of.

"This just won't do," she pouted, as though it was _her_ marred body, "what will we say to Empusa when she gets here?"

They remind me of parents; the great doctor and his wife. Always judging me, their eyes filled with pity when they look at me. The see me as their burden, their cross to bare. It is my siblings that they desire, the perfection that came with their combined first-born. I am an afterthought to them, but no longer. I might not have had the courage to volunteer for the games, but I am more than willing to show them why it is unwise to forget about Hypatia Dawson.

As they continue to gawk over the state of me, I imagine driving their scissors into their skin and dragging it down, all while they scream out in agony. While I never attack just any person on the street, nor my siblings, despite the fact that they deserve it, I still fantasize about what it would be like to cut them up and put them back together, better than they were to begin with. With every stitch, I am more like my father. With every wound I heal myself, I can feel him love me more than them.

In the arena, I will have my chance to gain my father's attention.

"You will be my work of patchwork art." His voice is deep, despite his feminine name. He is tall, dark, and imposing, like a Peacekeeper or bodyguard, with black, Gothic wings surgically attached to his back. Nothing about him seems to match, which throws me off just a bit. "Much like your scars, my work is stitched together to create perfection."

Perfection. I like the sound of that.

"I noticed your scars forthright," Empusa continued, ruffling the slight curl that Jetta managed to give my hair before she took notice of my chance to better myself. "My plans were tossed from my studio window, never to be seen by human eyes. You, Miss Dawson, YOU are my muse!"

Finally, someone that realizes my potential!

"Much like your cuts, mine were jagged, intersecting," he pulls a dress from the box he entered the room with, but he keeps it hidden behind him. "The stitches are haphazard and amateur, so very unlike myself. It will be the talk of the Rides, I can tell you that much."

Haphazard? Amateur?

No, that just won't do!

I go to open my mouth to retort, but he raises his fingers to my lips in an attempt to save himself the anguish of my response. He then thrusts his work into my raised hands, which were seconds from becoming fists. The colors, the jagged patches of cloth...

It's a work of art, much like myself.

"I love it," I tell him honestly, "Sincerely, I do."

With a quick kiss on the cheek, the most affection I ever showed for anyone other than my own father, I bound to my feet and start to get myself ready. His patchwork perfection fits me like a glove and flows down to my ankles before fraying out at the bottom. My hair is curled more, each one bouncing up around my shoulders and cradles my face, my makeup is spot on, matching my dress and my features pop out.

With Empusa's help, the crowd will love me. They will forget about those that volunteered for glory and murder for sport. I will be worshiped like the star I have always been. My mother might have been sucked into the faux glory that is my older, exemplary twin siblings, by my father was never fully sucked in by them. This will remind him of why I am his favorite child, his heir apparent. The experiments I did on my own body where just the beginning; the games will be my proving ground. I will rise like a phoenix from the burning rubble of this shit stain of a situation, I will be the victor of these games. I am the omega element that these games sorely need.

In the hall I find my district partner, the odd and effeminate Jarvis Sprence and he is a site for sore eyes. His suit seems awkward, his patchwork more precise and unimaginative. Of course, compared to the dress he wore to the Reapings, this is tame and he looks out of his element. His large, hazel eyes seem to have lost the sparkle it had on the train and perhaps the reality of his death sacrifice for my victory has set in. Then again, I thought I heard him crying in his compartment on the train...

His expression changes once he catches site of my flawless attire. "Hypatia! Your stylist is a genius!"

My trademark smirk comes through once again. "Of course he is, he had me to guide him."

He mockingly bows before me. "You, my dear, will steal the show tonight. I need to get my hands on something that stunning before we head into the arena."

Jarvis/Jalyssa believes itself to have a chance in this grand scheme of things, that being kind is the way to go. What everyone needs to know is that it is the perfection that wins the games and that is me. Hypatia Dawson. The formerly forgotten third child of the great District Eight doctor. No longer in the shadow of her siblings, she will invade your mind like no other tribute for her.

Even in the stable, I can hear the roar of the crowd. The other tributes gawk and stare, their jealousy seeping through. I drink it in, letting it fill me with the strength I need to get myself through it all and into the arena. Only then, will the real Hypatia Dawson. Only then, will I be free.

**Obsidian Lockett **

**Age 18, District One Male**

I've heard that us District One Careers are supposed to be proud as peacocks, but this is ridiculous.

The jewel-covered loincloth was one thing. We house the jewel miners, I get that. Honestly. The purpose of it being so...revealing...is beyond my comprehension. But still, I guess it all makes sense in the mind of a Capitolite. What seems out of place are the peacock feathers used as a rather large, floppy headdress.

My eyes find themselves on Versace, who is looking even more bitter than I am about our costumes. Her two-piece bikini of jewels is rather tame compared to what I'm currently trying to work with, but I understand her resentment. We are supposed to be viewed as savage beasts; volunteers for a game of death, and yet we are dressed in next to nothing. And feathers. On top of all of this, Felisha, my stylist, refuses to take her hands off of me. It's degrading and uncomfortable.

"Come, 'Sid," Versace croaks, grabbing me by the arm and saving me from more sexual harassment. "If we are to ensure leadership over the pack, I say we get a move on!"

...leadership? Does the girl mean me? Never once have I even entertained the thought of leading anything, let alone the Career Pack. Usually, that is something reserved for the more outgoing and ruthless of us all, for people like Versace herself or Ryder, from Two. As a District One Male, it is expected of you to make some sort of place for dominance in the Careers, but this isn't something I would ever see myself being particularly interested in.

Of course, I say nothing. I never do, honestly. Another reason why leading shouldn't fall to my shoulders.

The girl from Four is just as breathtaking in person as she was at her Reaping. It was obvious that she knew the girl she Volunteered for, as she pulled the girl in for a hug before going to the stage, and that gains her a bit more respect in my eyes. Still, all the respect in the world can't keep me from staring at her, the mermaid outfit she was poured into leaving little to the imagination and I find myself staring at her jewel-encrusted navel. She catches me staring at her and blushes, something I reciprocate.

"Micky Holder, District Four," she states as though she's done it a million times in the mirror just today and holds out her hand. "Obsidian, right?"

I simply nod in response, which seems to make the whole exchange even more awkward.

"Yes, well," she pulls her hand back slowly and I cast my eyes away. "Have fun up there, leader."

Leader? Where in the hell is this idea coming from?

Father would be so proud.

With a bottle of alcohol in hand, Versace's mentor graces us with his presence. Stone Zarvus is considered a national treasure, his victory the stuff of legends. With the highest kill-count to date, a mind-blowing eleven that no one has gotten close to, and yet, all I see is an angry, bitter drunk. The trainees back at the center dreaded the days when he would pop in to check on us. Jewel was always kinder, showing us things besides brute strength and violence. Stone would scoff at her sissified ways, believing her win to be nothing more than a fluke. Her Training Score of 11 was no fluke; the girl earned that score and did it without training. She has become a friend and hero to me in the past year of personalized training.

"Well hello gorgeous!" he exclaims, looking a blushing Micky up and down. "Under the sea indeed."

Politely as can be, she nods and saunters off, our eyes never leaving her until she is back with her District Partner.

"I was talking to Brutus about his tribute," he began, once his eyes were back on me. He takes a quick swig of his liquor and continues. "Ryder is a natural leader, a well-rounded tribute that he has taken a personal interest in for years. But you, my lad, you would make an excellent leader."

"Why is that?" I finally ask, desperate to learn what the others see that I myself do not. "I'm no leader."

"That's exactly it, my lad," he pats me on the shoulder. "Those that deserve power are those that do not seek it."

Well, that is a philosophical answer to such a question and not something you'd hear out of the misogynistic drunk's mouth. I can't say I disagree with the answer, because it is something I would have thought had the question not been about me, but for once, it doesn't apply. The thought of being leader does nothing for me.

"Let him have it." There is little to my voice and it wouldn't surprise me if didn't even hear it. "I'm no leader..."

And with that, I turn my back on him and enter my Chariot. Within moments, Versace joins me, her face contorted.

"District One needs to lead the alliance this year, Sid," her voice is pleading, so very unlike the girl I've spent the past year competing with. "We need control over these guys."

I sigh, looking down at the caramel colored horses they have pulling our chariots this year. "If you want District One to lead the alliance, do it yourself. I don't want it."

I glance up and catch her eyes go wide for just a second. Since being chosen to represent District One last year, this is the most I've spoken to her. Usually, I leave her rant and grumble, all the while listening with a patient, but uninterested ear. I've always been seen as the quiet Career, so focused on training that I have no room to muddle what I am doing with trivial things like words and thoughts. I just go out there and do what is expected of me. I can't do that here, though. What if my silence is seen as a sign of weakness? And, to bring it back to the problem at hand, how can I lead a group of trained killers if I don't open my mouth? To be the Career I am expected to be, it seems as though I'll have to change the person that I am.

And what if I refuse?

"We can settle the leadership debate tomorrow," Versace cackled, a lopsided smile growing in the wake of the roaring crowd. "Tonight, we are gods!"

**Verity Laraine **

**Age 17, District Five Female**

Power plant workers.

Why am I not surprised?

You would think they'd have a lot more to choose from, what with supplying Panem and the Capitol with all the power they will ever need and more. But, alas, no. It's Power Plant workers again for us, decked out in what looks like silver and black tinfoil, our hair spiked to look as thought we were shocked by the electricity we work with (or possibly, the idiocy of our costumes). Well, at least that part makes sense...I was shocked to see that someone called a _stylist_ had no _style._

I find myself more offended by my costume than I do about being here in general and I have no idea why.

Without saying a word, Ion takes my hand and helps me into the chariot, his callused hand is rough against my softer, smaller one. Why would a victor, a man of leisure other than his Capitol trips have workers hands is beyond me. Then again, a lot about Ion Finch is questionable. He is the youngest tribute to date, winning a mere two weeks after his thirteen birthday, and yet, his games are the only one you can not view at the Justice Building and are never part of any highlight reel. Boothe's labyrinth and Rush's castle are there for all to see, but Ion...he was a fluke win and the Capitol doesn't want a repeat.

Next to me, Lyle smiles softly, his eyes a little lost and sad. Like Ion, there is something more to Lyle than he is letting on. Both peak my curiosity, but I can not let it drag my focus away from the most important thing right now; winning. Going home means more than just the chance to live my life, to grace District Five once again, but to finally forge the relationship I've only dreamt of with my mother and father.

Maybe that is why I am taking such offense to these costumes?

No time to think about it now. Our chariot lurches forward, slower than a crawl at first, then the pace gets faster and faster until we are thrust into the light and the roar of the crowd. The colors and sounds overwhelm my senses, burning my eyes and pulsating in my ears. My body must have wavered, even slightly, because I soon find Lyle's hand on the small of my back, keeping me steady and, most importantly, on the chariot.

On instinct, I jerk away from his touch, refusing to look at him for fear of seeing the hurt that I know is in his eyes.

"Just...don't."

He seems to get it, as he backs himself away from me, leaving my mind to focus on the other tributes.

The Careers are imposing, each one of them older than myself; their costumes revealing. My eyes quickly find the chiseled, glowing body of the proud peacock from One, his cheeks a noticeable shade of crimson from the stares and catcalls from the men and women in the front rows. In the chariot next to him, the boy from Two is the complete opposite, dressed to kill as a golden god, he drinks in the admiration of the crowd, his face showing nothing but pure pleasure. In all honesty, the Careers are a mixed back this year, age seems to be their only similar trait.

"VERITY!" The mention of my name, lost in the sea of Career names, catches my ear. "VERITY LARAINE!"

Suddenly, I am wanted. It's a feeling I am unaccustomed to, yet always coveted and now, it only brings about conflicting chords that thrash about in my stomach. The breakfast I picked at on the train threatens to rise, bile peaking its unwanted head in the base of my throat. Once again, Lyle is there, keeping me grounded, his words are kind and his smile matches. But I can't help but feel like something is off.

"Smile, Verity," he coos, speaking as thought I am nothing more than a child. "Sponsors are watching."

Smile. Easy for him to say.

Instead, I manager to nod and wave in the general direction of where my name is being called from. To my despair, I end up waving at the chariot from Seven, as it happens to be standing between myself and my admirer. The boy, gorgeous and imposing, winks at me, causing my body to shake and my stomach to flip once again. My eyes dart forward again, refusing to even glance back at him. Part of me wants to laugh, though. The poor guy and his smiley District Partner have a stylist worse than ours.

Once again, the poor souls of District Seven are trees.

This prompts me to inspect and pick apart the other non-Career tributes in the parade. The pair from Three look amazing in their sleek black jumpsuits, complete with lights that seemed to be blinking in a pattern of sorts. Eleven are gods of the land, the girl gorgeously wrapped in golden hues, her partner matching and twitching nervously. I remember his Reaping and the circus it became once he reached the stage, my heart breaking slightly for the boy. The little children from Six and Nine shine through, their costumes catching my eye almost as much as their innocence. While I know I should never count out the smallest tributes in these games, especially with my Partner's mentor being the youngest to date, I can't help but picture them dying painfully and early; the girl from Nine pierced by One's spears, a throwing knife to the back for the budding monster from Six. Their kind breaks the hearts of all in Panem every year and yet, we do nothing about it. It's a vicious cycle.

A vicious cycle that I am now a part of. Those children, the ones that I just expressed concern over the loss of their lives, could possibly be killed at my hands or the hands of a potential ally. The Careers that volunteered their lives away, the littles, even Lyle himself, all have to die in order for my dream of acknowledgment to come to life. To gain what I deserve and desire, I have to get my hands a little more than dirty. Only once has a winner made it through the games without a single kill to their name, a feat that I doubt I can replicate. If I am to go home, I'm going to have to kill. Someone's blood will be on my hands in some way, shape or form.

Ahead of us, Coriolanus Snow stands at his podium, his hair matching his name and demeanor, his eyes boring into my own. He may not have created the Hunger Games, but they have been transformed into the fear tactic that they have under his watch. I shutter under his gaze and once again, there he is.

Lyle.

Can I honestly kill him if it comes down to him and me?

The answer scares me more than Snow's eyes watching us all.

**Taurus Betail **

**Age 16, District Ten Male**

Irony.

Here I am, on a Chariot, on display for all of Panem and I'm dressed as a sheep. Fluffy white body, white and black face, the works. While I should be happy that I'm a sheep _before_ it's been sheered, I still can't find a real silver lining in this. Irene seems equally uncomfortable, her frilly blue dress leaving much of her legs exposed, but at least she can try to pull off the sexy thing while she's in the Capitol and gain sponsors that way. Me? I'm a laughing stock, especially back home. I know the people that know me, that know the _real_ me, are laughing at me behind my back. But no matter, I'm going to own this costume, fake wool and all.

Names of other tributes hit my ears and I can't help but feel a little sad that not one of them is my own. The Careers are the loudest of all, of course they are, but even the smaller tributes are getting shown some Capitol love. Ones like the boy from Six, the youngest of us all. His Reaping was insanity at its best and showed us all not to count the youngest tribute out this year. There was just something about him that stood out...

I couldn't help but stare at him; his silver jumpsuit is blinding, his hovercraft headgear hilarious. The girl seemed annoyed by him, constantly rolling his eyes as he became more and more animated. In an act of defiance, he flips off those that call his name and they love him more for it. He's an accidental superstar and I need to be a part of it. That kid is good for sponsors.

"That kid is going to get himself killed very quickly."

Her voice was monotone, steady, unlike the rest of her body. She was going to be eaten alive once the training starts tomorrow, I just know it.

"No, he is standing out, making a name for himself," I correct her, my eyes never leaving him. "Something I can't do in this _thing!_"

She sighs, but never moves her eyes from directly in front of her. She's robotic, frightened. I feel sorry for her, honestly I do, but I know that nothing I can do will save her. If I ally with her, she'll drag me down. A large part of me feels guilty for thinking that way, for almost _wishing_ for Irene to die, but in the end, it is the nature of the games. If the guys back home knew how genuinely sick that makes me feel or felt the bile of shame that is burning a whole in my stomach, they would toss me out on my ass. To them, I'm just another follower, another bully. I hate that word, I hate everything about the person I have come to be.

If I can win this, maybe I can change everything. Maybe...

I swallow down the blame and cowardice that threatens to spill out of my mouth and give into the adrenaline of the crowd. Part of me can see why the Careers break arms and fight tooth and nail to hit the stage; the rush is like little else. Here, everyone knows your name. From the oaf from Two, to the boy that went from flipping them off to now mooning the crowd, to even robotic Irene, they know each and every one of us. Everyone, except me-

"-BETAIL!"

What? Me?

Irene nudges me and points to the left, where a pair of girls my age stand; their faces painted and signs made with care and grace. Fans. The coward of District Ten, the sheep amongst the wolves, the motherless son...they are calling my name! This was all I needed...this was the push I needed!

"LADIES AND GENTS, IT'S TAURUS BETAIL!"

My district partner let out a slight shriek as I pushed myself up onto the front of the Chariot. My knees ache and my hands hold the wood for dear life; one slip and I'm a hoof-pressed meat bag. Behind me, Irene bellows at me to come down, but the high I am on doesn't let me. The attention, I need it. If I am going to live, I have to make a stand right here and now.

I won't be like that boy that made it to the end and took his life. Good or bad, I'm going home a victor.

The speed we are traveling at doesn't allow me to do much else by stay in my position, so after only a minute (which feels like forever), I dropped back down to where I'm supposed to be. However, that minute was all I needed. The focus of the crowd is no longer on the Careers, the youngest tribute, the girly-looking guy from Eight...no. It is on me. Well, that is, until we pull around the town center, where President Snow looms above us. His slicked back hair and full beard give him the distinct look of a bleached lion and the bloody rose in his breast pocket reminds us that he _is_ a lion, only a lazy one. Instead of hunting us down himself, he'd rather rely on the rest of us to do the dirty work for him. Pathetic.

"Welcome, one and all, to the 54th Annual Hunger Games!"

The crowd pops and its louder than any of our names, reminding me that we are only as good as what we do _in_ the games. Murder, backstabbing, general awful behavior, that is what they really want from us. Friendship, team building, and love are to stay behind, for they do not make this story worthy of their money. At the end of the day, we are a slave to them, just as we are back home.

"Tonight we salute your bravery and your sacrifice."

His voice...it's like glass being shoved through your skin slowly, you can feel the torture and anguish with each syllable. I half expect my skin to bleed, but instead, I find it quivering. From high above us, from behind his podium and power, he stares at me. Ice blue hues bore a hole through me and I skin into my shoes, my face turns the same shade of white as my costume.

In my race for glory, I made an enemy of the one person I shouldn't have.

In the arena, a Career can kill you. An ally can kill you. A Gamemaker can kill you. All of those things are true, but never certain. What _is_ certain? If President Snow wants you dead, that is it for you.

I am a dead man.

**Elias Auberon**

**Age 16, District Three Male**

These people are seriously mental.

The boy from Six, the youngest tribute with the _hilarious_ name, has taken to acting out as a way of gaining himself attention from the Capitol, while the sheep from Ten seems to enjoy following suit. Even now, they seem like two peas in a pod, bonding near the sugar cubes for the horses. Pathetic, really. Normally, I wouldn't give enough for a shit to point out their behavior, but where we are going, I have to give everyone a look over. Saves me from having to do the work for it later on. Granted, there isn't very much to go on here, but it's a start. Tomorrow, I can start to really take them all in.

The girl from Twelve is an interesting one. Her blonde hair is shocking, especially when compared with her Partner and the other tributes I've seen come and go from her District. The scar that seems to go from the side of her face to the back of her head warrants my attention, as does the crazed look in her eyes. Her Reaping was an interesting one, with the thrashing about and string of obscenities. It was one of the better Reapings to watch on the train ride here and certainly more entertaining than listening to Beetee finish the dingbat's sentences because she's too nuts to do it herself. And don't get me started on Tesla...

As if on cue, she moves beside me; her blue eyes vacant, her walking and overall stance differs from that of the girl on the train. It's almost as though there are two different girls inside of her, fighting for supremacy. Normally, I'd find it funny or, at the very least, fascinating, but in her, not so much. She's a definite player in these games, that much is certain.

"Got an alliance in mind?" Her voice is sweet and just a pinch higher than her normal tone. For some reason, I notice that and it doesn't sit well with me. "The girl from Twelve, perhaps?"

I shrug my shoulders, knowing that it is best to keep all of my cards in hand before tossing them to the table and discovering a hole in my poker hand. "Who knows. Training seems like a better way to discover what these guys are really like. For all we know, the klutz from Eleven is a tech wiz and the girl from Nine can bench press three times her weight."

Her eyes flash confusion, as though she is unable to grasp if I believe my own words or not. This lasts for only a brief moment, as she shrugs her shoulders and walks past, making a bee-line for the elevators and leaves her mentor behind her. Of course, in her absence, they decide to corner me with their ridiculous questions. Beetee might be a genius and the first proper male winner of the games, but he's an idiot for sticking by this lost cause and even _more_ of an idiot for saddling me with her. Wiress twitches as she walks towards me, a nervous tick made worse in the arena and her eyes never meet my own. A hopeless mess if ever I've seen one and I've seen all kinds of people in District Three.

"So, did you learn anything out there?"

I shrug my shoulders. "The names of the other tributes. I'm pretty sure there's one running around here named Ryder."

Wiress twitches and shuffles her feet. "What...what he meant was-"

He cuts her off, which irritates me to no end. "Did you watch the other tributes, learn anything from them? Potential allies?"

"Let the lady speak, man," I scoffed, making Wiress twitch some more. "Yes, I learned a little bit about my opponents."

"It might help of you don't refer to them as your opponents," he sighed, adjusting his glasses.

Once again, I find myself scoffing. "And what should I be calling them, oh fearless leader? Future victims? Death buddies? SERIOUSLY?"

Soon, everyone is staring at us. District Three has finally stolen the show.

"Whatever. Meet me upstairs."

And with that, I find myself in the elevator alone.

Sometimes, I don't get our mentors. They are victors, survivors, and yet, they act as though they have no clue as to what they are doing. Maybe Decimal held them together. I don't remember Gideon really having a chance to mentor before he kicked the bucket long before I was born, so she must have been the glue that held them together. Without her, they are lost and I am fucked. Seriously fucked.

Thanks for killing yourself, lady!

It's not long before I am our suite and joining a silent Tesla. Her outfit that completely matched mine and sent out the "District Three Rocks" Morse code message that was just _super original_is now gone, replaced with a simple nightshirt and sleeping pants. She is silent, sans for the sound of her chewing away at her apple. I can't help but gulp loudly as she slowly cuts each piece with a larger knife than needed for a job likes this. The juices run down her mouth, her stare vacant.

This girl is legitimately freaking me out.

"They want to help us, you know."

I look up from my muffin and notice that she is staring right at me. No, not staring at me, looking _through_ me, as though she doesn't see me there and is speaking only for herself. Then, just as quickly as she shook me to my core, she turns. A light comes back into her eyes and she smiles at me. If I wasn't so comfortable in my spot, I probably would have bolted for my room right then and there. Plus, if I am to be honest, I am intrigued by her.

"I know, but lucky you, you didn't get saddled with the headcase," I remind her, tipping my muffin towards her out of respect. "I guess they feel that you need more help than I do. Wonder what the means for us in the long run."

Honestly, I don't see Tesla making it far without their help. The girl _screams_ issues and I can see her zoning out in the arena and ending up with a knife to the back. But something else bothers me about her, as though this isn't her first time with a knife in her hand and I don't mean to peel an apple. She is touched and I can't be on the receiving end of it. In my line of work, I've seen all kinds of people. None, however, are like her.

And, frankly, that isn't a good thing.

I remember when her brother died, the kid they called Sparky. His murder was never solved and he casket was carried through his neighborhood to the cemetery, per the District Three tradition. The family, Tesla included, followed behind it, his parents barely making it to the cemetery. I was only a kid at the time, but I remember catching the ghost of a smile on Tesla's face. Even then, at nine years old, I knew it was wrong. And now, I'm trapped with her, trapped with a sociopath, a headcase, and a guy trying to keep it all together, at least until we hit the arena and come back in a pine box from Seven.

Maybe I'll get lucky and she'll try to make a break for the weapons early. Wouldn't be the first time someone got antsy before the clock hits zero, but I doubt I'll have that kind of luck. No, if I'm going to make it out of this place, I'm going to have to go against everything that makes me...me. I'm going to have to give a shit and try.

I am so fucked.

**Elvira Amaro**

**Age 14, District Nine Female**

They are at it again.

Right off the bat, I could tell our only remaining mentors were miles apart one what we, as tributes, should be doing. While one wanted us trained together, an alliance right off the bat, the other has different plans and the shouting match has commenced. The tension is so thick one could drown in it, which one would only have to look to Chester to see exactly that. His face, usually so full of life, is growing pale and torpid, as though this was a part of his everyday life and he thought he could escape it in the Capitol.

Well, sorry Chester dear, but things are tough all over.

A book goes flying across the room after escaping the metal clutches of our last victor, narrowly missing the head of my own mentor by inches. "If you had just listened to me last year, they would have made it further."

"Come off your high horse, cyborg!" His words leave a pained expression on her face that I can't help but grin at. "Your way or my way, the outcome would have been the same. But if you just listen to me, I can bring one of these two back home. We will have another victor!"

"You? You didn't bring me back! I BROUGHT ME BACK!"

His voice, barely a quiver, goes overlooked by the shouting pair. "Why don't you ask us what-"

"STAY OUT OF THIS!"

Drama. I usually relish in it, let it absorb itself into my skin. It's so easy to manipulate and mold into just the thing you need to make it to the next day and yet, just as easy to use as your distraction. Back home, it was my bread and butter, sometimes literally, as I could work it all to my advantage. Maybe that is why I feel as though I am thriving here. I should be scared, like Chester, worried about getting my mentors on the same page, worried about them getting me out alive. But Lulu is right, she got herself out of the arena and in the end, I will have to get myself out as well. My mother isn't here to preach her gospel to me, my sisters aren't here to save me. I'm alone in all of this.

I can't help but feel sorry for Chester. His story is a well-known one in the District, even from someone who lives and spends her time on the fringe of the Grain District. He's awkward and gawky, his cheeks grow rosy when you stare at him for too long, a sad sap from the beginning. An injured bird that might be just the type that you want with you in the arena; he'll be at your beck and call, while not having the strength or will to defy you. But first, I must gain his trust.

My patented wail pierces the air and I drop to the ground, letting my limbs twist and turn like ragdoll parts. While Lulu, immune to my dramatic ways just scoffed at me, Wheatley was at my side and holding my hand before I knew it. Taking the cue, Chester took Lulu by the hand and asked to leave the room and discuss a play for tomorrow. Thanks, I hope you remember that when the we are battling to the death in the arena.

"You're fine, ignore Lulu and her childish ways," his voice is silky and unnerving, sending a shiver down my spine for some reason I cannot describe. "What we need to do is get you ready for an alliance. Now, did you see anyone worth teaming with?"

I racked my mind, replaying the events since entering the Capitol. Domenico undressing me, his team poking at my ribs, commenting on my boney frame. The dress made of grain that left my body itchy and red, while poor Chester was left in a grain loincloth and headdress. The horses, the cheers. The Careers looking as though they would spear me without a second glance. Focusing on not falling off the Chariot, while trying my best to pull in sponsors. The noise...so much noise. But an alliance?

Never crossed my mind.

My silence was all the answer he needed. "Teaming with Chester might not be in your best interests, mainly because Lulu will most likely poison his mind. She would turn you two against each other just to spite me." He pauses for a moment, his face contorted in thought, then continues. "Now, there were a few potential tributes that I noticed from the Reaping alone that might work for you."

Poison Chester against me?

Poison his mind?

Poison...

That's why he gives me the willies, when all he's trying to do is help me. His games were rarely shown in our district, but I remember catching them once as a child. He played his role of protector quite well, suckering in the weakly pair from Twelve and the girls from Five and Three. During his interview he gushed about want to keep his new friends safe, his _6_ made him fade into the background. Hell, he still played his part during he bloodbath, getting most of his alliance out of the Bloodbath and into the Funhouse his arena was set in. Through the maze of mirrors they went, losing the second tribute from Twelve and he mourned for them. Days they went, just himself and the girls, making it past one obstacle after another until finally, he was sent a box as they slept. Under the cover of darkness, he toiled away, pouring different colored liquids into a larger vial until finally adding his concoction to their food. Curled up by my mother's legs, I watched through covered eyes as they munched down his food, which he so selflessly gave up for them.

He killed his own allies with a poison he made.

I didn't understand it then. The smile that grew across his face as they choked and vomited blood all over themselves entered my dreams every night for weeks and I saw him as only a monster. But now, I see it for what it truly is.

Survival. Be or be killed.

"Do you see anyone that I can easily manipulate?"

A smile, the same one that haunted me all those years ago, spread across his face. "I knew there was a reason why I wanted you as my tribute."

Poisoning won't work with me, as I'll never be able to get the vials just right. No, much like the rest of the tributes from my District, a sickle will do me just fine. What I can do, however, is find myself an ally or two, strong, trusting. Of course, a little naïve. Someone that can carry the small, God-fearing girl from District Nine through the games and keep me safe from harm.

Until my sickle finds their throat.

The Elvira I used to know wouldn't dream of turning on her friends and slaughtering them as they sleep. Then again, I never dreamt of myself actually being _reaped _and entering the Games. I guess I always thought one of my sisters would come to my rescue, saving me from certain death and taking my place, but familiar bonds are never that strong, not even in my family.

If all of this goes as I plan, will they understand why I did it? Will they be able to look me in the eye and be in my presence? Wheatley's family abandoned him after his win, denouncing him as a son. Will my mother and sisters do the same?

Will I even care if they do? At least I will have my life and the riches I always dreamt of having.

"Well, I _do_ have someone in mind..."

* * *

><p><strong>Well, look who FINALLY came back? <strong>**I know I have a lot to explain, what with this FIVE MONTH hiatus, but please hear me out. **

**As most of you might have noticed, with the exception of my duties as a writer on the 24-Author project I am a part of (It's All In Their Hands...CHECK IT OUT!), I have disappeared from Fanfiction. There is a reason behind that. Well, a few. At first, I was a bit overwhelmed with general life crap. As a single mom, things happen and my kids come first. But usually, it doesn't effect my writing. However, in the beginning of July, I lost my father. Without getting into too many details, my daddy pretty much died right in front of myself and my two kids. This happened right in the middle of writing this chapter. After dealing with the funeral and the general outcome of his death (especially with dealing with my kids, who lost a man they were extremely close to), I just had no desire to go back to this story. I tried, over and over again, to write this and I just couldn't do it. Then, I kicked myself in the ass and realized that I could use this story as a way to kind of forget my feelings for a little while. So yes, I plan to finish this story. I put too much effort into building a universe around this, creating a blog for not only these 24 tributes, but for the victors as well. I have sequels planned, going beyond the 75th games and going all the way up until the 100th games at LEAST! I won't let this die out. ****However, you may have noticed a slight change in what I had promised of this chapter. Instead of TWELVE POVS a chapter, I am doing SIX. I also have most of the next chapter written, so expect that very soon. Oh, and check out the blog for the victors if you haven't already. Just a little score sheet for each victor, from Adela, the first victor to Blight. forgive the children we once were . blogspot Just eliminate the spaces (there are ten).**

**I am dedicating this story to my father, who would have wanted me to finish something I started. This first step is for you! **

**As always, I have a few questions I'd like you, the review, to answer. If not, no biggie. Whatevs! ;D**

_**Out of these six, who stood out? **_

_**Who do you want to see next? **_

_**Thoughts on the Victors blog? **_


	5. The First Training Day

**Survival – The 54th Annual Hunger Games **

"_Don't walk behind me; I may not lead. Don't walk in front of me; I may not follow. Just walk beside me and be my friend." _

_Albert Camus_

**Training Day One**

**Tarquin Derrein**

**Age 15, District Eleven Male**

My night was filled with restless sleep, my mind plagued with images of my death, as well as those that died because of my actions. Each time I closed my eyes, the fire encased me, circling me...never allowing me to leave. Trapped. Just like all of those people that lost their lives, like Chaff's little sister, Bedeliah. She was one of the last to go, dying in route to the only hospital in District Eleven. I heard stories of how burned her body was and how she screamed for death, despite her lungs being charred from the smoke.

Chaff hates me and I don't blame him.

Unlike the others in the arena, my hands aren't clean. I doubt the Careers have killed dozens of people in one action, that the smiling boy from Twelve ran as the flames spread and destroyed everything in their path. No, that is my burden to bare and now, I'm going to die for it. The Capitol is seeing to it that the klutzy little pyro with blood on his hands goes down. My Reaping was no accident, that's for sure. Thanks to my _parents_, I've never had to worry about tessera or being picked. That was for kids with five younger siblings to feed and parents with bum legs, not for the kids like me, with parents that owned the land they worked on.

Kids like my District Partner, Isley.

Speaking of which, my partner was now sitting across from me, a smile plastered across her face. Where this happy mood is coming from is beyond me, the girl could be dead in a week's time and she's smiling away, as though nothing at all is wrong. This girl is an idiot!

"Did you sleep well, Tarquin?" Seeder asked, placing an apple muffin in front of me, her smile reassuring.

I shake my head. "No, ma'am. I didn't."

Her smile quickly turned into a frown, but for only a moment. "You'll need your strength today, eat up."

The slamming of Chaff's bedroom door startled all of us except Isley, who continued to sit in silence with that shit-eating grin of hers. A thickness entered the room before he did, choking me, clouding my eyes. He must have seen a moment of weakness in me, because as soon as his eyes met my own, he started in on me.

"Someone hasn't offed the little murderer yet?" In one swift move, he used his good arm to steal the muffin that I had yet to touch and take a larger than normal bite out of it. "Oh well. Maybe accident-boy will trip on the mines and blow himself to pieces."

"CHAFF!"

"I'm sorry, Seeder, but was _your_ little sister roasted alive by this little fire-starter?" He points his finger and I sink heavily into my seat. "She was just a kid, Seeder."

"It...it...accident," I sputter uncontrollably, the tears falling freely from my eyes. "I...I'm sorry..."

He doesn't say a word, opting instead to storm out of the room and slam his bedroom door behind him. With that, Seeder seems to give up and retires to the couches by the TV. Oddly enough, it is Isley that comes to comfort me.

"Ignore him, kid," she scoffs, almost as though she believes it is that simple. "The guy is still in mourning over his sister."

Hello Captain Obvious.

"Thanks," I mumble, before returning to my own room. Once inside, I throw myself on the bed, wondering how I could possibly get myself out of going to the first day of training. As far as I know, it is mandatory and death awaits anyone that doesn't comply. What I don't understand is, aren't we already sentenced to die? I mean, it's not like the twenty-four of us get to go home Scott-free when all of this is said and done and our only means of death is not showing up to the training sessions, so why force us? I can always tell them I'm sick and, given my state, no one would give it a second thought.

No. I have to face this. I might deserve to be here, but I'm going to fight to get back home.

A rhythmic knock on my door brings me back down to Panem. I rise slowly and find Isley waiting at my door, dressed in our training session attire, the silver _11_ sewed onto her upper arm.

"Let's get this day over with, shall we?"

Before I can say a word, the girl snatches me by the arm and drags me to the elevator before throwing me in and hitting the down button. Once inside, she is silent, but her leg twitches with anticipation. She's looking forward to this, I know she is. This girl is crazier than she looks!

"I heard about the fires," she begins, her eyes never moving from the doors in front of us. "Sorry, that must get you down."

"What do you know about it?" I snap, regretting it right away. "Sorry, I'm not usually this snippy."

"Chaff seems to bring that out in people," she laughs a little, still not looking at me as she speaks. "He's a handful, trust me. He said he would bring me home if I helped off you."

Nice to know. "Yeah, well, I hope that goes well for you."

"I'm not going to do it, cupcake," her voice suddenly goes from excited to cold. "I have plans for this arena but none of them involve me killing you. District Eleven sticks together, even if they aren't allies. We don't kill our own, that's for the traitors, the Careers, and general misfits. We're family, you and I."

"I'm not your family!"

Just in time, the doors to the elevator open and the Training Center spills out in front of me. Most of the other tributes are here; the pairs from Ten and Twelve, all of the Careers. Soon the second and third elevators opened and the rest came out and we circled around the head of the training center, a large, imposing woman named Emerita. The kid from Twelve, the boy with the large smile and olive complexion, nodded in my direction, making me smile for the first time today.

Maybe I can put the past behind me. Maybe...maybe I can forget where I came from. The other tributes in this arena don't know what I've done and Isley doesn't seem the type to spill my weaknesses to the rest of the tributes, especially not after the little speech she gave in the elevator about not waiting to be behind my death. She's loyal, as am I. I doubt we'll be allies in that place but I know that neither of us will die at the others hands and that means a lot to me. Especially from a wild girl like Isley, who seems to be as unpredictable as they come.

"Alright, Tributes, listen up and listen good," Emerita's voice goes right through us all, causing all the unnecessary chit-chat to come to a sudden and complete halt. "Within the next few weeks, all but one of you will be dead. Twenty-four tributes go into the arena and only one emerges. You know the drill. What you don't know or are too blinded to see, is that not all of the tributes you see in the games die at the hands of another tribute. Extreme heat and cold, poison, malnutrition, infection...these things can kill just as easily as a spear to the chest and an exploding mine, yet take longer and you suffer from it. Everyone wants to head right for the weapons and pointy objects, yet ignore survival skills. Don't be stupid, take it all in. We have three days to get you ready for the arena and I suggest you get in as much knowledge as possible. Now, there is one rule that we abide by more than anything else in these walls. No fighting with other tributes, you'll get your chance in just a couple of days so use the trainers that you see present throughout the center, that is what they are there for. We break at 1 for lunch, so have at it."

The Careers, the magnificent Six themselves, all make their way towards the large weapon section, where the dark-haired beauty from One snatches up a large hatchet and hurlers it without looking. Of course, the blade imbeds itself into the face of a white dummy several yards away and I shutter at the sight of it. It could just as easily be me.

My legs turn me around and move quicker than my brain can wrap around the situation and I soon find myself head over feet, face first into the rack of spears. The clatter of metal on floor echoes through the Center, but is quickly drowned it out by roar of laughter. Almost every tribute is staring at me now, all with their mouths gaped open, their eyes dancing at my misfortune. All, sans for Isley and the boy from Twelve. My eyes fall on the little bastard from Six, who is now rolling around on the floor in hysterics, his face scarlet and I want to die right now. The trainers descend on me and bring me to my feet and the embarrassment is over now, or that's what everyone seems to think. The tributes rush off to their respective corners and start the training process, while I continue to stand here, waiting to die.

Someone, kill me now.

**Ryder Rhodes**

**Age 18, District Two Male**

The kid from Eleven falling over himself after watching Versace murder a dummy was hilarious, as was the response from the boy from Six. Even now, as the boy from Eleven sulks off to be with the pipsqueak from Twelve in some pathetic attempt at an alliance, he cracks up laughing and rolls around on the floor. I get it, I guess...not wanting to be alone when they die, but eventually they will turn on each other or die at our hands; it happens ever year. It's a sad fact that we all have to live with in Panem. Fifty-three years of Hunger Games and nineteen wins have come from Career Districts and while that might seem like a small amount, there are districts that have a max of three wins. Twelve only has two and one was murdered. Our victors are all still alive, sans for that boy from Four that disappeared.

Speaking of District Four, the boy with the luscious, girly locks and pension for flirting with anyone that walks on by, is now cozying up with my district partner, speaking in low tones near the archery section. Neither of them are really up to the Career standard that I expected when I was finally given permission to volunteer, but it will make them easier to kill later down the road. I hate to think like that, but it's a reality that I have to face sooner, rather than later. To bring my district the pride that it deserves, I will have to take lives and survive an arena going out of its way to kill me.

Not very different from home. Not really.

There were those that believed I should never have been allowed to train in the first place. A poor street kid got the invitation to train at Pius Bastille's Training Center, a personal invite and a free ride, when it could have gone to another rich kid. To boot, I only got the chance to try out thanks to kicking the shit out of the man that trained me for this moment, the man that is mentoring me to victory. Brutus pushed through my application and backed me when everyone wanted to toss me out on my ass. I fought my way through the ranks and now I am where I deserve to be, reaping what I earned. And in a few weeks time, I will be crowned a victor. The sacrifices I made will be all worth it.

And, if for some reason I don't, I know Brutus will take care of them. He promised.

"Spear?"

Her voice is sweet, too sweet to truly be one of us. And yet, she's here. Another volunteer, trained and ready to kill for the chance of eternal glory and riches beyond compare. She doesn't have a bad bone in her body and I can tell she'll crack under the pressure, but part of me doesn't want her to. I don't think she truly knew what she was doing when she took that other girl's place.

"Why not?" I flash her a smile, which makes her blush slightly. "Our district partners seem to have hit it off quite well, maybe we'll have similar luck."

Her eyes quickly finds them and she scoffs. "Maybe Orpheus will stop hitting on me and move onto her."

Something tells me that's a long shot. "District One seems like a tight unit this year, probably trained together. Back in Two, we are picked a year in advance and given separate, specialized training for ten straight months. The last two are integrated with our Partner."

"So...you know Arianne, at least a little, right?"

I shake my head. "No. She wasn't supposed to volunteer this year, it was her little sister that was chosen. I guess she didn't want her sister to get the limelight, especially since this was her last chance to volunteer."

"Poor girl," she mutters, shaking her head. "Glad I don't have any sisters."

For some reason, that comment pains me.

Brutus wants me to gain leadership and to do it early. Establishing a head of the Careers early in the game brings a stability to the group and places someone as the rock that will hold it all together. Of course, he wants the rock to be me and I'm more than willing to fill the shoes. However, we all give off the vibe of a broken set. One has a close bond already, shown in their training sessions with the Capitol trainers, who are trying to attack them while they are back to back, protecting each other at every turn. Arianne is wrapping the horn-ball from Four around her finger and, quite frankly, I don't trust her. The only one I have on my side is Micky, which isn't that bad of a choice. The girl welds a harpoon as though she was born with one in her hands and her eyes are soft and kind. A good mixture, even if her sweetness comes off as weak.

Around us, the others begin to branch out, finding allies and testing their skills. The pair from earlier, the pipsqueak and the klutz, have finally made their alliance official, bonding over the snares section, where the klutz has now managed to tie his fingers together. The younger girls from Six and Nine are huddled at fire-building station, while the boy from Three was napping at the hammock-making station. All in all, this was a sad group of kids and the only challenge came from the other Careers.

And the boy from Seven.

With an ax in hand, he walked past the wonder twins from One and into the sea of white dummies and took a deep breath. As soon as the area was clear, he pulled out his weapon and he was off, hacking and slashing his way through the dummies before disappearing in a sea of white feathers. Limbs went flying into the air, foam and feather-filled heads rolled. Off to the side, the girl from Ten stares at him, her mouth open wide enough to catch flies. In fact, he has several admirers, including Lockett and LaGore, who step aside to let him out of the mass dummy homicide he has created.

I was always told that my fatal flaw is that I need a challenge, something that is going to take me to my limit and he is going to be it. Minecraft...My-something. Seven. He is going to be my equal in this place, I just know it.

"He's painting a target on his back," Micky states, matter-of-factually. "He's either brilliant and planning something or really stupid."

We both know the latter isn't the answer.

"Forget him for now and show me what you can do."

Spear on harpoon, we take on the trainers that were once going at it with District One. Back to back we go, guarding each other and slaughtering those that come across us. Our movements aren't as smooth as One, but we hold our own and it could be enough to keep us alive in the arena. We make quite the pair, but I know that isn't going to be enough. With wild cards like Seven and some of the other underlings, we need our pack to come out in full-force, not in three pairs. We need a leader to keep us all together and we need to establish that now. Before the day is over, I want to be leading this pack of backing the one doing so. If not, we are going to tank before we get into that arena and by then, it'll be too late for any of us.

"Holder," I called over to Micky, who was taking a breather between sets with the trainer. "We need to get everyone on the same page. This pairing off crap isn't going to work in the long run."

She nodded, before wiping her brow. "Good point. Maybe we should give the kiddies their time together and pick this up during lunch. A fed Career tribute is a happy tribute."

The girl had a point. "Alright, Holder, so let's get back to this."

To my surprise, the girl loses the harpoon (which she was able to use both offensively _and_ defensively) and grabs a pair of knives, one for each hand. The trainer looks like he doesn't know whether to quit or drop to the ground; her last round of attacks landed him with a nice slice on his bicep. I can't help but watch in amusement as she makes light work of her attacker, pinning him to the ground with ease and places one blade inches from his throat and another poised to plunge into his chest if he was to manage to get away from the first one. For an obvious rich kid, the girl was a natural. You can only train yourself so much before your natural instincts take over and make you exceptional.

The girl I doubted is becoming my biggest competitor.

"Mind saving some for the rest of us, Holder?"

She laughs it off as though it was all nothing. "I can't let you have all the fun, _Rhodes_!"

A slow clap came from outside of the training pit and I find the rest of the Careers watching us, obviously taking notes. While the others seem as impressed with Micky's knife work as I am, one looks on with a twitch in their eye and curve in their lips.

Arianne.

She bumped off her own sister to get to where she is today, what else is she willing to do to survive now that she's here?

**Dicky Howett**

**Age 13, District Six Male**

"No, you fucking hick, green and blue wires," I slap the back of his head and he turns and faces me, a furious look spread on his dumb face. "Do you want to learn how to make these things or not?"

The anger never leaves his face as he follows my command, twisting the green and blue wires together, but he says nothing. Taurus is a good pack mule and a perfect ally; loyal, pitiful, and willing to do what I say, when I say it. He will get me far and when the timing is right, I will drop a bomb into his pocket and send him on his merry way. BLAM-O! Just like Mrs. Sykes' cat last Reaping day. Man...that was one of my best, I can tell you that. It was the only time a Peacekeeper caught me and it took my sister a long time at the station to get the charges dropped. It was hilarious, she was crying and shaking when she returned. I guess the reamed her good for raising a degenerate like me.

I don't get why that's all people see in me?

"Nice, Taurus, my man," I praise him and for once, I mean it. The backwoods cow-raiser from the prairies is actually getting it. "We just need a spot to plant it."

"What about the lunchroom?" A smile dances across his face. "Plant it there during lunch, no ones the wiser."

I don't hide the look of disappointment on my face. "It won't hurt anyone. How else will we know the damaging effects it will have on the tribute population?"

"I thought you've done this before?"

Snagged. "Yeah...but I love watching it pierce their skin as they try to run off!"

I wish I had my tools from home, the ones that Maebelle hasn't taken from me. She never lets me have any fun and acts like she's my mother. Sorry, Mae, but that bitch is long gone, hanging out with the rest of the morphling addicts or possibly dead. Maybe if she laid off me for awhile, she'd notice the other shit going on right under her nose. The cycle of morphling addiction isn't all that far removed from our family, even with mother gone.

"Should we invite anyone else into this alliance?" His voice brings me back from the memories of my home life. "Make this a trio or quartet?"

Good question. Do I show what I know, what has kept me entertained back home to the masses? More people means a better chance at protection, but more people to get rid of down the road. I'm already regretting letting Taurus know what I can do and blowing him up will actually make me just a little sad.

"No," I finally answer, ignoring the flash of disappointment in his eyes. "You get me, you understand me. I doubt anyone else will want to team up with us after the Chariot rides."

Personally, I could care less what the others thought of me. They're all going to die anyway, who cares what a dead person thinks? While they're rotting in the ground, being eaten by worms and beetles, I'll be living the life and being left alone, just like I've always wanted. When I win, Maebelle won't be able to tell me what to do and she can go on with her pathetic life. Hell, my mentor has a walking hard on for her, she can set her sights on that instead of me.

"Shit, he's coming back!"

The trainer stationed at the electronics station abandoned us after hearing me talk about my hobbies back home, the look of disgust was pretty amusing. Now, he was sans the sickly green color to his face and neck and was staring me down. This could only mean one thing...he puked and ran into someone that told him about what happened in the Justice Building.

"You," he began, sticking his finger in my face, just an inch from my nose. "The tools."

Sighing heavily, I pulled the wire cutters out of my pocket and slammed them into his hand. "Damn, what if I needed to cut a wire in the camouflage section?"

He isn't amused by me, not in the slightest. "If my tools go missing again, I'll make sure the mines below your pedestal explode."

"Is that a promise, cupcake?" His eyes go wide in disbelief. "You would tamper with something as fun and exciting as The Hunger Games, just to get vengeance on little ol' me? I'm _sure_ Snow would just _love_ that!"

"Listen here, you little shit-"

I cut him off, snapping my teeth at his finger, which was still dangling in front of me until that moment. "You listen to me, you Capitolite piece of crap! I've made better people than you disappear, got it?"

With that, he storms off, leaving me shaking with hysterical laughter. "Oh man...that guy. He's funny."

Of course, what that idiot doesn't know is that I nicked his bolt cutters, a handful of nuts, and his hand-held wire burner, as well as my little bomb. I take note as he enters the lunchroom and take off after Taurus, who has already moved onto the survival stations. Across from us, the two from Eleven and Twelve whisper and plan, their hands quickly moving up and down two sticks in a sad attempt to make fire. Eleven's District Partner, a nice-looking girl with unbelievably curly hair is standing off to the side, refusing to interact with anyone and watches instead, taking in everyone's strengths and weaknesses. A good idea, but boring. Me, I like to have a good time.

The odds are stacked against me, I know they are. I may be a psycho, but I'm far from stupid. I'm the youngest tribute this year and the smallest as well. I managed to align myself with someone capable and compliant. Someone that will follow me to the end of the games and keep me safe. He takes my verbal abuse, much like my friends back home, and keeps coming back, so I know he's the one I need to survive this.

"He won't get away with talking to me like that," I informed Taurus, who only nodded, not looking up from his series of knots. "No one speaks to me like that."

He laughs it off, and at first so do I. Appearances and all. But inside, it burns me. That Capitolite thinks that he is better than me and why? Because I'm a Reaped tribute, because I'm from District Six. Well he can suck that down and more. Taurus gets that I am the one to look out for, why can't the rest of them? And when I get to the arena and show them what I can do, then...then they'll get it. I'll blow all their asses sky high.

"Stick with me, hick and I'll get us to the Finale. I guarantee it."

I smile because it's the closest I have come to speaking the truth in this place. I smile because I would love to see us in the finale; the hick and the loon. We are the ones no one expects anything from, which makes us dangerous. We are the wild cards, the late bloomers, the

As dangerous as the bomb I keep hidden in my pocket.

**Illana Tivka **

**Age 17, District Twelve Female**

They keep watching me, staring at me. Looking at what makes me tick, their eyes following my scar. It's always the same, just like it was back home. The gawking, the whispers, always the same, always the same.

On my arm, I mark another reminder. _Snares. _My pen, the one I carry around with me always, almost didn't make it into the Games with me. The man...young and drunk, with the sad eyes, he said they feared that I might use it as a weapon and given my reaction to being Reaped to begin with, he wasn't surprised. I'm just glad they let me keep it, it's the only way I have to remember.

My left arm is nearly filled with little notes; some just a word or two, others paragraphs with missing and jumbled words. I miss the person I used to be, before the accident. Back when everything came so easy to me and I wasn't a mangled mess of a person and half the girl I once was. They think because I can no longer retain memories and my outbursts are becoming more violent, that I don't have feelings or notice their actions. I notice, but they no longer hurt me. Not always, at least. I notice the way my father no longer sees me as his daughter or his equal. I believe it used to hurt me, but no matter.

If I can win this, they will have to fix me.

The boy with the brown hair stares again, his curious look is starting to get under my skin. Napping in the...net?...is no longer working for him and has returned to his favorite game of watching me go from station to station, trying to find something that works for me, something I'll be able to remember tomorrow. It makes me want to lash out; I can feel the rage rising in my chest, but I know I cannot. Instead, I grab the...pointed ax?...and head towards the back corner of the room, where dummies donned in white stand. I swing with all my might, trying desperately to shoo off the boy, but it only seems to bring him closer to me. Just like the others, just like the others.

Sweat drips down my face as I keep swinging, my arms throb and pull as I jam the point into the head of the...white...and the light, red objects inside fill the air around me. And still, he watches with a smirk on his face. His face enrages me, but I keep hacking and slashing my weapon. Back and forth it goes and still, he watches.

"STOP IT! STOP LOOKING AT ME!"

This does the exact opposite of what I want it to. Everyone stares, the group of six gawk and one boy giggles. The smallest child points and laughs, holding his midsection as he does so. The people in charge, the...what's the word...come towards me, ready to keep me calm if necessary. And still, he watches me.

Through their arms, he sticks his head and speaks to me. "Elias Auberon. District Three."

On my worst days, I cannot remember my own name. Back home, I keep a slip of paper in my pocket with my full name on it, just in case. My condition leave me without the ability to form new and lasting memories, but it also warps my old memories, leaving me without the knowledge of how real they actually are. At the...Training Center...I keep it on my right arm.

"Illana Tivka."

"Can I treat you to lunch?"

Another girl glares at me, but it's a look of hatred that comes from her vacant eyes. It's a look I am unused to, as usually it is amusement or pity that people look at me. Her hair is as yellow as my own, but her eyes are like ice. She holds my glaze until I take his hand.

"Why?"

He smiles, but it is not mockingly, it is genuine. "You are different than these people and I want to see what makes you tick."

Honest, he is. "Who are you again?"

"Elias from Three."

Under my name, on my right arm, I write _Elias – Three._ I almost write something about him, something that makes him stand out, just so I have a chance of finding him again if my mind gives out on me, but I don't. There is a change in his eyes as I write his name and it makes my hands shake, so I don't want to scare him off too soon. My mind might be mush at times, but I know that a steady alliance will serve me well in the arena, even for a little while and if he is seeking me out, then it's already stable. No one else will want to be around the violent girl that can't remember shit.

The bell rings, ending our awkward meeting and we are ushered into the canteen. As suspected, the group of six with their big weapons and loud words are first in line; obviously they need to put food into their bodies if they are going to continue attacking dummies and gabbing all day. Others join them in line, either alone or in pairs. Elias, I double check the name on my arm, walks next to me the whole time, silent but always watching. His eyes catch my scar, which seems to have him fascinated.

He's different than the boys back home. In Twelve, everyone has a job to do. Food and clothing doesn't come free, so you do what you can until you hit the mines at eighteen. Everyone keeps busy, as it keeps your mind off of starving to death. Elias...I checked my arm once again...seems, well, lazy. He slouches at the table, tossing bits of fruit into his mouth, he doesn't take his situation seriously. We could all be dead in a week's time and he's watching my scar as though it does tricks and munching on fruit.

As he babbles on about his mentor, eyes like ice stare at me from the corner of the room. Yellow hair, ice eyes. She doesn't want me with him.

"That's Tesla."

His words catch me off guard. "Excuse me?"

"Tesla Farlane, my District Partner," he answers, before coughing on a piece of purple fruit that he haphazardly tossed into his mouth. "She's...off to say the least."

I can feel the anger bubble inside of me. "Off...is that how you think of me? Is that what this is about? Befriend the crazy girl?"

His eyes flash with a mixture of hurt and pity. "No, that was never it. If there's one thing I am, it's an honest guy."

_Honest guy._ I don't care that he stares at me funny, his head cocked to the side. I write it below his name and pray that I remember who he is come tomorrow, or, even more importantly, that I remember him when we rise up into the arena. "Well, Honest Guy, tell me about your district."

He tells me of his job, a common errand boy for his father's factories, of his mother's corny jokes and failed attempts at impressing his friends. He words come easy, his laid-back vibe is enviable. There is something about him that draws me to him and before I know it, we are back out on the floor again, starting a fire. The blonde girl still stares at me, but it's easier to shrug with him. It's like being home again, among those that I barely remember. He doesn't seem to mind that I say nothing and he stops staring at my scar. Instead, he watches his hands as they attempt to mimic the instructors, gliding up and down the twigs in a sad attempt at sparking something. Eventually, it ignites, causing a small blaze.

For a moment, I forget that fire is hot and am generally shocked when it burns my hand. I don't mind it when he laughs, because it's unlike the others back home. It isn't mocking or hurtful, not like that of the small boy with the menacing smile.

Come tomorrow, I'll forget it all and be back at square one.

**Micky Holder**

**Age 18, District Four Female**

Thus far, the games are not living up to the expectations my instructors have set for us back at the Training Center.

We are taught loyalty to your District above the loyalty of your fellow Career. Dispatching of your own, leads to your name becoming persona non grata, especially if you are to return home. Thalassa Monroe, our third winner, was subjected to this when she drove her pike through the chest of her own partner just two days into her games, as was the Reaped girl last year. Her name is spoken in hushed tones now, forever cursed. Her brother now lives with that, the poor darling.

Hopefully they will see my situation for what it is and grant me immunity from the curse, as there is next to nothing keeping me from putting my harpoon through the face of Orpheus Killikrates.

Since our time on the train, he has spent every breath in his body sending some form of flirtatious whisper my way, touching my hair when he believes I won't notice and turning up the charm to eleven. No matter how many times I tell him of my boyfriend back home and my desire not to cheat on him, despite the possibility of it being my last time to, quote, "get any", he hasn't gotten it through my head. Or, that seemed to be his modus operandi, until he saw the blonde bombshell from Two, Miss Haskell, as he's come to call her.

At first, I was glad to get rid of him. Now, there's something about the two of them that I just can't read and honestly, I don't like it. Neither of them are to be trusted, that much is certain, but in a situation like this, who can I trust?

"Holder!"

His smile is sweet and I'm instantly reminded of Zack. My hand goes to the necklace that presses against my bare skin, rubbing the seahorse that hung on the left side before moving to the dolphin on the right. The logos for the companies our families run, side by side for the first and only time. We would have been married after this Reaping, whether our families liked it or not, and yet, here I am. Had my best friend not been chosen, I would be wearing his ring, instead of his necklace.

Without skipping a beat, I meet up with the others at the far back corner of the Training Center, far enough away from the other tributes, who seem more invested in their own survival training then they do us. Of course, if they were to see what we were doing, they'd know right off the back what we were up to. The Careers need a leader and now seems to be the best time for it.

"How do we want to do thi-" Versace barely has a chance to finish her sentence, before she is cut right off by Rhodes' District Partner.

"Orpheus," she balks out, patting him on the shoulder. "He's got some great ideas and with his charm and wit, the sponsors would be all over us."

There is a reason why I am friends with only one girl.

"Absolutely not."

Within moments, they turn on each other, words flying fast and furious, leaving the rest of us in our dust.

"And why not?"

Versace, inches from her face, lays into her. "Do you honestly want to take direction from this horndog? Maybe you want to be lead straight to your death, but the rest of us are here to win. He wasn't trained and he hasn't lifted a weapon all day."

"I'm saving my talents for the arena," Orpheus pipes up, his trademark shit-eating grin plastered across his face. "And I'm more than just a _horndog_ as you so _cheaply_ put it."

"I'll show you cheaply-"

Day one and we are already a grenade, prime and read to explode and wipe out anything close enough to the blast site. Obsidian, thinking fast, grabbed his district partner around her waste and pulled her back and Rhodes quickly follows suit, leaving myself sinking into the background like a pasty wallflower.

What was I thinking?

Training gives you an edge in the games, that much is certain. We study past games, giving ourselves an idea of what to expect after we raise our hands and sign our lives away. Our trainers shout insults and encouragements while we clash swords and spears, adrenaline pumping through our veins as the metal sparks in front of our eyes. We believe we have everything we need drilled into our heads so when our times comes, we are ready to battle and prepared for glory. What they fail to teach is companionship and social skills and how to work together as a team. Even if you are trained together for years before hand, you are never quite ready for team bonding and the crowning of a king.

We are doomed to fail, just as the Reaped kids are.

"Can I count on your vote?" his voice is sickeningly sweet, sending a chill down my spine. "District loyalty and all?"

Words form in the back of my throat, words I just want to scream and scream at him until there is nothing left of him. I want to berate him for believing I would ever want anything to do with him, I want to show him what a slimy womanizer he is. Of course, I can't do that without making this entire situation much worse than it already finds itself to be and I walk back towards the survival stations.

The girl from District Eleven, with her wild locks and fiery eyes, watches me with a smirk on her face and an apple from the canteen in her hands. Not once has she lifted a finger all day, outside from bringing her sweet treat to her lips, and yet, she seems to have this whole thing figured out. I nod at her, letting her know that I see what she is up to, despite the fact that I have no idea what her agenda happens to be. A loner, perhaps? Scared? Doubtful. Then what is it?

"Want to join me?"

His voice is soft and feminine, and it doesn't take a genius to figure out whom it belongs to. Red hair that matches my own in both color and length, pale skin akin to a snowbank, and flowers painted on his hand; the _boy_ from District Eight. The one that wore a dress to his Reaping that was prettier than my own. He hands me an extra brush and makes room for me, despite the difference in class and rank. I'm a Career by default, volunteering from a trained District and allying myself with others like myself and he could be cowering from me, in fear that I might strike him down before the games even begin. Instead, he offers me a distraction from my ass of a partner.

He doesn't say anything as we paint and for that, I'm thankful. It's peaceful and I lose myself into my work. Before I know it, his arms are covered in bright yellow and orange flowers of all shapes and sizes, while intricate vines cover my own. The instructor of this station abandoned the boy long before I came along and seemed relieved to not have to teach us a thing. No one begged for my attention, no one wanted me to kill a living creature; it was like I was free to just be myself. Even at home I am not given this type of freedom, as the only daughter of a fishing mogul, I was made to train like the other children of power and to stay away from our rival family. Painting, well, it keeps my mind from wondering what might have been, if Bea's name had not been called.

"Maybe we should meet here tomorrow, huh?" his smile is like that of the flowers he painted haphazardly on himself. "I'm Jalyssa...well, Jarvis is my given name."

I shake his outstretched hand. "Micky, District Four-"

Like all good things in Panem, they must come to a screeching, exploding end.

Much like that of a bomb, going off inside of the canteen.

**Noely Eugenie**

**Age 17, District Seven**

After the boy from Six was drug out of the Training Center, his face bright from laughing like a crazed loon, the rest of us were forced into the elevators. Alliances were forgotten, if only for a moment, as guards shoved two, three, sometimes five into an elevator at once. I turned to protest, but with each brandishing a baton in one hand and a look of utter disdain, I figured it was best not to test my luck. After all, I don't want to follow that little sociopath to wherever it is that they are taking him. Instead, I followed the crowd and entered the elevator with the girl from Eleven, the one with the bouncing curls, and dark-haired boy from Five, who says nothing and stares at the floor.

The girl spoke and I suddenly remember her as the one that made a break for it during her Reaping, rather than accept it as I had. "So, the kid's a mad bomber. Who would've thought it?"

She then rips into an apple, obviously taken from the canteen and doesn't flinch as the juices drip down her squared chin. There is something about this girl, the one I caught lounging about, but I can't quite put my finger on it.

"You could tell he wasn't wrapped too tight," the boy chimed in, not once looking up. "I just feel bad for the kid he aligned himself with. He'll be drug down with him, no doubt."

The girl stuck her hand out first to the boy, then to myself and we each shook it. "Isley from the District of oppression and unrealistic deadlines. Or, Eleven if you are so inclined."

"...Lyle. Yeah, Lyle," he stutters out, looking up at us and smiling sideways. "District Five."

"Noely, Seven."

She pulls another apple out of her pocket and tosses it over Lyle's head, who ducks just in time. "Seven. Lumber, right? Dressed up like trees every year and good with an ax or hatchet. Can you climb? Stupid question, you've spent your life in the treetops! That's like asking if I know how to starve or pick fruit in the hot sun."

I stare at her blankly, so taken back by the barrage of questions, that I nearly missed Lyle sneak out when the elevator stops at his floor. He gives me a knowing glance, before sliding into the safety of his living quarters, leaving me alone with this girl.

"Now, coming from the Power District, he might know his way around electronics and electricity itself, which could come in handy," she continues, in between bites of her apple. "All of this works; the three of us. I think it'll work."

"What are you talking about?"

She doesn't say a word. Instead, she just keeps eating her apple and waves as the doors open and reveal my forest-inspired accommodations. As I turn to await her response, she answers with a shove that sends me flying into the living room and plops me right onto my backside.

A colorful string of obscenities flows from between my lips, signaling my return to the District Seven team...if you can call them that. Ivy got her claws into me from my first moments on the stage, refusing to entertain the idea of letting me align myself with the stronger, good-looking Tobias because he was being mentored by Blight. Meanwhile, Blight seemed like a bit of a mess himself, overwhelmed by first year of mentoring and dodging insults and dirty looks from Ivy. Lotus, the effeminate ball of energy is the most stable of our support team, even if his way of helping is to play with my hair and tell me how pretty I am.

"That language is not befitting a future victor, Miss Eugene," his voice cuts through me, hitting my ears like shards of glass. "Please, mind it."

I bite my tongue, literally, letting the curses that want to come raging out drown in the blood that fills my mouth. Ivy brushes off my bottom and back, trying desperately to look like the model mentor, while Tobias looks on from the dinning area with a sympathetic look plastered across his face. Of course he would look like that; everyone saw what he could do with an ax. All I did was take my pushy mentor's advice and it still landed me in the center of another tribute's gaze. And, because that's just my luck, the other tribute seemed to be not all there. At least Lyle seemed nice...

"Your room. Let's go."

Before I had a moment to object, Ivy was shoving me into her room and cornering me like a Peacekeeper trying to obtain unsavory information out of a rebel.

"Were you involved in what happened down there?"

"Seriously?" Her look proves that yes, that was in fact, serious. "No! It was that little sociopath from Six. I saw him at the tech station with the sheep boy from Ten."

She breathed a sigh of relief. "Good...good. All we need is some sort of target on our back from the Capitol. Did you meet anyone worthy of an alliance?"

I want to tell her about meeting up with Lyle and the antics of the girl from Eleven, but I find myself shrugging instead. It's probably best that I don't get Ivy's hopes for me up. She looks disappointed in me, her eyes going darker for just a moment.

"The first day is just for feeling each other out," she insists, pushing her hair out of her face. "No one makes alliances on their first day, except the Careers."

A scoff escapes my lips as I think back to the blow up they had towards the end of our first session. The girl with the fiery hair stormed off, finding herself at the camouflage station, while her District Partner took to the corner with the blonde from Two, speaking in hushed, serious tones as the others went back to the killing grounds, sending the littles that moved in for some training scattering back to the survival stations like cockroaches when the kitchen light comes on.

I can't help but wonder what my family is doing right now. Did Beck take over my spot in the shop with father? I'm sure father wouldn't approve of having Beck around the shop, but he's the best he has. Do they miss me? Mother probably doesn't, being as though she rarely looks up from her knitting, so she might not even realize I am gone. Come to think of it, she was the only one that didn't come to see me off at the Justice Building-

"Noely? Are you even bothering to listen to me?"

Ivy's shrill voice brings me back to reality.

"I'm sorry, you were saying?"

She takes my simple daydream of home as the grounds for war. "Fine! If you can't be bothered to listen to me, then I'll just go help Blight mentor pretty boy in there. At least he'll listen to me!"

With that, she slams the door behind me and I find myself crying in bed.

I want my father and my brothers. I want my life in the Black Market of our district. I want my best friend Carabella here with me, stroking my hair and telling me that everything's going to turn out for the best. I want their words, even if I know them to be lies. I just want to go back home to District Seven.

Is that too much to ask?

**A/N: I seriously didn't think I would ever make it through this chapter, let alone bring this story back from the dead. I have to admit, some POVs were easy to write and hard to stop writing, while others were like pulling teeth at times. But, I made it through. And, with this chapter, I am halfway through introducing you lot to the 24 tributes! Hooray! Now, here are a few questions I'd like you to answer in your review...if you chose to review, that is. Also, remember to check out the blog for a good look at the tributes and remind yourself of whom is whom. Survivalhungergames . blogspot . c o m. Just remove the spaces. **

_**Out of these six, which ones stood out? **_

_**Are you happy I came out of hiding? **_

_**Did you see Mockingjay Pt. 2? (of course you have!)**___


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